Renewal in Rivendell
by Budgielover
Summary: Chapter 32. Lord Elrond, Gandalf, Aragorn and Bilbo enjoy the hobbits' reactions to their surprise and cherish every moment before the Fellowship prepares to depart Rivendell.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer:   _The Lord of the Rings_ and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and its licensees.  These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit.****

(Author's Note:  This story is a continuation of "Recovery in Rivendell," which I strongly recommend you read, for continuity's sake, before this one.  Helga and Leah Beth, it is so encouraging when someone tells you they are waiting eagerly for the next chapter!  YunaDax, ditto [and be careful at work].  Thank you.  Firiel and Rose Cotton and Bookworm, as you can tell, I love horses … their beauty, their gentleness, their nobility.  Alatariel, no bother – there must be _some_ Frodo-angst!  Baylor, _ack_ – you caught me!  I dropped Gandalf's story line and had to scramble to recover it.  Claudia, ah, too obvious … it has to be more complicated than that…   Azaelia, be assured I read your review on "Snowball Fight," and thank you for posting it.  Kidders, signed in or not, thanks for that very encouraging review.  Firnsarnien, I am honored that a teacher is enjoying my writing.  I hold teachers in the highest esteem.  Tmmeow, thank you!  Nilmandra, FF.Net is persecuting you, too?  Now I can't review _at all_.  Lily Baggins, such comments from the author of "The Pine-Woods Excursion" humbles me – thank you.  A Elbereth, I really did try to wrap up all the story lines and start afresh … it didn't work.  And Shirebound – let the sequel begin!)

**Renewal in Rivendell**

Chapter 1:  Endings and Beginnings

       Giving in to the hobbits' pleas and their own sense of urgency, Elladan and Elrohir agreed to ride by night.  At speed, they would arrive in Rivendell just after the sun.  The news that the twins held for their lord father would not wait, and they were worried about Merry's arm.  Bereaved of its splint and jarred by the excitement, the arm was swelling and throbbed unmercifully.  Merry endured the pain with a white face, unnaturally silent.  As they had no supplies other than what the twins had carried, it was but the work of minutes to load up the patient Inmara and seat each hobbit before them.  Merry gasped when Elladan handed him up to Elrohir, squeezing his eyes shut, sweat beading his brow.

       "Hold!" ordered Elladan, his dark eyes fastened worriedly on Merry's pale face.  "Brother, he cannot ride without that arm being supported.  Bide awhile and let Pippin and I search for a splint."  Elrohir dismounted and set Merry back down, noting with concern how tightly the hobbit pressed his broken arm against his side.

       Pippin searched the riverbank, seeking his discarded bread sculpture as he was certain that nothing better could be found for this use.  When he found it at last in the fading light, water from the bank had invaded it and the dough form was limp and unusable.  It dissolved into soggy pieces in the tweenager's hands.  Pippin regretfully buried it, patting the sandy soil in farewell.  Merry consoled the tweenager gently then as soon as his back was turned, stomped it deep into the sand.

       Abandoning hope of finding a straight, suitable stick, at last Elladan padded Merry's arm carefully then bound one of his long knives along the limb.  Cradling the weary hobbits against them, the Elves pulled their cloaks forward to wrap around their small passengers and turning their mounts towards home, kneed their tired horses to a canter.

* * * * *  

        "Silence!" the Elf-lord hissed, and the host of elven horse behind Elrond obeyed as best they could.  For all their attempts at quiet, heavy stones and boulders could not be moved and piled without noise.  Dusk had deepened into dark while they worked, but the host labored without torches as Elrond refused to allow any light that might betray their presence.  Now the moon rode high overhead, its light sufficient for the laying of the trap that would defend Rivendell … and the evil object that sheltered there.   

        Aragorn's thoughts turned to one young hobbit and the evil thing he bore in defiance of the Great Enemy.  His oath to the Ringbearer was foremost in his mind as they waited; he could do nothing more to protect Frodo now.  The Ranger dropped and crawled aside the prone Elf-lord and levered his head over the cliff-side.  Elrond was stretched out on the bare earth, his dark gaze scanning the landscape.  The Elf-lord met Aragorn's glance and shook his head in negation; the Ringwraith was not yet in sight.  The two pulled back and joined Glorfindel and those not involved in the stone-work where they stood with the horses, back from the steep incline.

       "Elrond," Aragorn asked, "Can it not feel our presence as we feel its?  It does not see as Men or Elves do, but if we feel it as a coldness and a creeping fear, what does it know of us?"

       Elrond reached up to stroke his horse's muzzle, patting the anxious nose thrust into his hands.    

 "I do not doubt it knows we are here," the Elf-lord returned softly, " but I pray it does not know exactly where.  The senses that it has cannot see through rock and stone, and the twisting paths of my home confuse it.  You said that it took several wrong turns before finding the correct way," he paused and Aragorn nodded confirmation, " so it must seek the valley like any other traveler, all its powers of evil aside."

       Elrond closed his eyes and tilted his dark head to the side, his mind seeking for the invader's path.  But even he could not pinpoint it among the deceptive, twisting ways.  His host were placing the last touches on the avalanche of boulders they had positioned at the narrowest part of the constricted path, chinking the pile of stones which threatened to rain down whether they willed it or no.  Among them moved a squat, solid figure so unlike his own people.  Gimli the Dwarf had joined them as they mounted up, sitting ahorse most ungracefully, and was now adding his considerable expertise in directing the Elves in the building of the trap.

       Elrond smiled to see his people look askance at the Dwarf but they acknowledged his superior knowledge of fortification building and obeyed his instructions.  To the side of them now rose a great pile of small boulders and loose stones, grouped around a massive granite boulder and held loosely in place by pivot-stones, which could be knocked aside in an instant.  The entire assemblage was held by a single wooden peg, driven into the earth before the granite boulder and tied to a rope.  The Dwarf crouched to the side of the unsteady pile, peering down upon the twisting path, his muscled hand tight on the rope. 

* * * * *

       Though Bilbo and Samwise both tried to soothe the semi-conscious hobbit, Frodo would not be comforted.  The Ringbearer's pain and unreasoning terror grew with every step nearer the Nazgûl came.  The closed wound where the Morgul-blade had stabbed him had turned cold again, and Frodo's left arm and side were as bitter as ice, stiff and unyielding to the touch.  Sam warmed bricks on the hearth and wrapped them in thick towels, tucking them against his master's side.  Even this did not diffuse the creeping cold, and Frodo cried out again and again in anguish.

       Bilbo drew back from his nephew's bedside, wiping perspiration from the pale, agonized face.  "Easy there, lad," the old hobbit whispered, knowing that Frodo could no longer hear him.  "Rest easy, my boy.  Sam and I are here, and we won't leave you."  

       Samwise stood by his master's bed, chafing Frodo's cold left hand with both of his warm, calloused ones.  The sedative Elrond had given him, dangerously strong as it was, could not shield Frodo from the awareness of the terror that approached, seeking him and that which he had been entrusted.  Whimpering, Frodo twisted in the sweat-soaked sheets, eyes wide and unseeing, seeking escape … seeking refuge.

      The loud knock on the door started Bilbo and Sam both into crying out, Sam biting his tongue in an effort to stifle the second yelp that rose in his throat.  The two hobbits stared at each other in terror before Bilbo coughed and forced a laugh.  "It's just the door, Sam.  Answer it, would you, lad?"

       Sam staggered to his feet, trying to hide the trembling of his limbs.  "Guess that wicked thing wouldn't knock, would it, sir?"  His smile was ghastly.  "All right, I'm coming!" he called as the knock was repeated, loud and impatient.

       Gandalf stood in the doorway, his arms laden with bundles and his staff tucked precariously into an elbow.  The wizard swept past Sam and Bilbo, dropping his bundles on the small side table against the wall, and leaned over the Ringbearer.  "How is he?" he said softly, his deep gaze sorrowful and strained.

      Bilbo eased himself stiffly out of the chair and stroked his nephew's dark hair, the soft curls stringy from sweat.  "He's suffering, Gandalf.  He's aware of it, even so deeply drugged.  He knows it is coming.  Can't you do anything?"

     The wizard reached out and gently touched Frodo's face, receiving a pained gasp in response.  "I am, Bilbo.  I am doing something.  I am preparing to carry the Ringbearer to safety, should Elrond's efforts fail."  Bilbo and Sam paled; the thought that Elrond might fail and the Ringwraith win through to Rivendell had not truly occurred to them.  

      "You think -" Bilbo began, but Gandalf cut him off.

      "I fear, Bilbo.  I did not go with Elrond because someone must be here with Frodo, ere he fails to stop the creature.  I have been to the kitchens and gathered up bread and cheese and travel food.  I want you and Sam to pack some of Frodo's clothing and warm cloaks and blankets – whatever he and you two will need, should it come to an evacuation."

       "Evacuation," Sam murmured, for a moment not understanding.  "You mean, if we have 'ta run for it?"   

      "Exactly, Sam," Gandalf replied.  "The Ring – and its Bearer – must not fall into the hands of the Enemy."  The wizard gazed keenly at Bilbo.  "Either of its Bearers."   Then those deep eyes snapped to Samwise.  "Sam, get those things together.  All we will need for several days in the Wild.  Bilbo, I suggest you fetch your mail coat and Sting."

      Swallowing, Sam obeyed, his heart racing.  Gandalf took Bilbo's chair as the old hobbit left to gather his own things and his sword, the wizard's gnarled hands reaching out to stroke Frodo's ashen face.

* * * * *  

       Elrond did not need to warn his host to silence when the black form appeared on the narrow path below them.  Coldness flowed from it like an icy wind, a darkness and a dankness that chilled the soul and froze the heart.  Elrond, with Aragorn beside him, again lay prone on their bellies, their heads raised over the cliffside. The Black Rider slumped in the saddle, a misshaped thing, malformed, only its mailed gauntlets and boots could be seen apart from the ragged robes.  For a moment it hesitated at the crest of the path, its featureless head raised and seeking.  It seemed to sniff the cooling air, snuffling like some malevolent hound after a scent.  For long moments the creature sat still and silent, uncertain, then it kicked its mount into a walk, coming down into the ambush.

      Elrond waited until it was almost directly below them, to where a few more steps would carry it under the path of the great boulder.  Then silently, he slashed his arm down and Gimli jerked the rope tied to the peg that supported the entire avalanche.   The peg shot free.  Released from  restraint, the smaller stones rolled first, gathering dust and dirt and others as they moved.  The greater stones moved next, overtaking the smaller and smashing them into pieces,  sharp shards of stone flying like missiles.  The black horse reared, screaming.  With an agility that none would have credited it, the beast twisted on its haunches and leaped backwards.  One of the great stones smashed into its flank and it staggered, its rider thrown to the side in the saddle.  The Ringwraith shrieked, the anger and hatred in its unnatural cry striking terror into the hearts of all that suffered it.  Some of the Elves clapped their hands over their sensitive ears, their fair faces tightening in pain.  

      The avalanche gathered momentum, stones striking each other and knocking each other to the side.  The black horse recovered, white foam and red blood painting its body.  A groan swept through the host as the Nazgûl regained its seat on the sweating beast.  Showing a skill that would have been admired had this been other than what it was, the beast's rider backed the black horse out of range of the falling stones.  Still as death, it sat in the saddle as the cascade of stones lessened then stopped, the cowled darkness of its face raised towards the Elves.

      The greatest of the stones, the granite boulder, gouged out great hunks of the cliffside as it fell and when it reached the path, it bounced on the narrow way before rolling off and smashing its way down the sheer incline.  As Elrond watched, horrified, the whole section of the narrow path gave way, following after the boulder in a shower of loosened earth and stone.   

      Elrond watched with a sinking heart as the last, smaller stones rolled harmlessly past the still figure and into the newly created crevasse.  The black horse lowered its ugly head and snorted, the sound somehow contemptuous and derisive.  Its rider was silent but none there doubted the threat in its rigid posture.  For a long time the Lord of Imladris and the depthless black cowl faced each other, then the Nazgûl drove its mailed boots into the beast's sides.  Even as it screamed in pain, the black horse obeyed, carrying its rider back along the way it had come.  The Nazgûl paused at the top of the crest, turning in the saddle to raise its cowled head to stare once more in the direction of the Elf-lord.  Though Elrond could not see any sign of features in the unrelieved blackness of the cowl, he could almost feel the twisted smile on the evil thing's face, and the promise of retribution in its unseen eyes.

* TBC *


	2. New Directions

(Author's Note: QTPie-2488, glad you found the story. I'd miss your reviews. Shirebound, I enjoyed your comment and the insider joke/pun/thing. Rose Cotton, your "rambling" didn't frighten me; I am honored and grateful that you invest so much thought in your comments. Arabella thorne, thank you and regards to Jasmine. Girlofring, you wrote an interesting AU for the defense of Rivendell … I might have to borrow an idea. Artesmia, all right – another twins fan! Pansy Chubb, Elrond has seen Pippin's sculpture, which was part of the reason he was so happy to have the tweenager gone for a few days. Firnsarnien, my envisioning of your "happy dance" brightened my day. Baylor, your comment made the story better – thank you again. Helga, working in humor is difficult, isn't it? And it's so important. Elwen, re your comment on "where going next" made me wonder why are almost all my stories are "road" stories. Have to mull that over. Lily Baggins, thank you; a comparison to Tolkien is the highest compliment. [And more "A Little Affliction," please – as soon as you can?] Coriandra, I'm glad you are enjoying the story. Leah Beth, thank you. I'm honored that you all are following the story and appreciate your reviews. It really does help in developing the various plots. Thanks for letting me know you are enjoying the story – it makes the effort worthwhile.)

Chapter 2:  New Directions

        Gandalf closed his eyes and leaned against his staff, lines of weariness etched on his face.  A faint wind swirled about his tall figure and rustled his robes, lifting his hair, the only movement on the balcony.  Sam watched him worriedly, trying to keep an eye on the wizard, his master and old Mr. Bilbo at the same time.  Sam reflected darkly that he was running out of eyes.  The stocky hobbit sighed as he finished rolling Frodo's clothes and stuffing them into his master's pack, slinging it over to join the others.  Sam's pack and Bilbo's lay by the door, ready to be snatched up in an instant.  Gandalf would not leave them to fetch his own pack, so Sam had improvised a carry-sack of blankets that he filled with the bundles Gandalf had brought from the kitchens.

      The wizard turned and strode back into the room.  Bilbo looked up from where he had been rubbing Frodo's hand, questions in his brown eyes.  "The attempt has failed," Gandalf informed them abruptly.  The Ringwaith is unharmed.  The northern path into Rivendell is destroyed … permanently, I think."

       "Does that it mean it won't be coming, sir?" Sam asked.  

       Gandalf shook his head, his eyes still distant.  "No, Sam.  It will seek another route.  It must – its master drives it on.  Sauron knows where his Ring is, now."

       As if the Ringbearer could hear him, Frodo moaned and half-opened his eyes, laboring to focus.  Gandalf leaned over him and laid a hand on his forehead.  "He is coming out of it, and I have none of the sedative to give him.  More would be dangerous, in any case.  Stubborn hobbit!"  Gandalf sighed as Frodo struggled against the drug, his brow crinkling and brows quirking as he forced himself to awareness.         

       "Frodo-lad?" Bilbo asked anxiously, chafing the cold hand.   

      Frodo blinked.  He looked at his uncle, then those beautiful, puzzled eyes traveled to Sam, who smiled at him reassuringly.  Frodo closed his eyes, relaxing.  "I feel awful," he groaned.  "What –"

       Gandalf caught his shoulder as Frodo's eyes widened.  In an instant the wizard was sitting on the bed, holding the Ringbearer as Frodo's body went rigid, his great hand stroking the dark curls.  Frodo clenched the wizard's arm tightly with both hands, gasping as his eyes focused on something beyond their vision, a knowledge dawning in their morning glory depths for which they had no comfort.

       "Frodo!"  Gandalf shook him, hard.  Frodo's head snapped back on his neck and he glared at the wizard, his mouth opening.  "If you are angry," the wizard said, "you are not frightened."  Frodo looked at him blankly for a moment, then buried his head against him with a gasping laugh.

       For a long time the wizard held him, rubbing his back in slow circles.  At last Frodo raised his head and pulled back, still shaking slightly but under control.  "You drugged me," he accused them in a voice too weary to hold much blame.

       "We had to, lad," Bilbo interjected, his old face still strained.  "You were beyond reason.  We couldn't reach you."

       "Aye, sir, we had to," Sam put in.

       Frodo reached up and laid a cool hand against Sam's black eye, feeling his friend flinch at the gentle touch.  "Did I do that?"

       Sam nodded. "But it wasn't your fault, sir.  You didn't mean 'ta."

       "I'm sorry," Frodo whispered to him.  His eyes turned to all of them.  "I'm sorry."  Suddenly he shuddered, dropping his face into his hands.  Raising his left arm jarred the shoulder, and he grimaced.

       "You are better now," said the wizard briskly, "and that is what is important.  Now," and his rough voice gentled, "can you still feel it?"

       Frodo was still for a moment.  "Yes.  It … it is not as close, but still there.  It is still coming."

       "Yes, it must."  There was great sadness in the wizard's voice.  "It was a great King once, a man renown for his wisdom and valor.  Now it is but a lesser shadow in the shade of the greater, tortured and tormented, no longer remembering what it once was.  That is a mercy, perhaps…"

       Sam looked at the old wizard intensely, an odd notion in his mind.  He knew that Gandalf was thousands of years old, had walked the earth forever, it seemed.  "Older than dirt, meanin' no disrespect," as his Gaffer would say.  Had Gandalf known this King, this wise and valiant warrior, before he fell to temptation and became a monster?  Was the sorrow in his deep eyes for a friendship lost?

        The wizard felt those fervent grey eyes upon him and took a moment to smile at the gardener.  "In any event," Gandalf continued more briskly, "we cannot allow it anywhere near our Ringbearer."

       Frodo smiled at him wanly, then his gaze fell on the packs and he struggled upright again.  "We are leaving?"

       "Gandalf said we might have to, lad.  Don't you worry – Elrond has stopped it," reassured Bilbo.

       "Say delayed it, rather," corrected the wizard.  "The northern path is no more.  It will circle 'round and seek another."

        Frodo nodded, too exhausted and aching to summon much terror at the moment.  Seeing him sag back against the pillows, Gandalf rose from the bed and tapped Bilbo on the shoulder.  The elderly hobbit slid out of his chair stiffly, wincing as old joints creaked.  Bilbo leaned down and kissed his nephew gently on the forehead, and the two moved quietly towards the door.  Sam pulled the drapes over the glassless windows, darkening the room while his master slept.

      Gandalf hung back a moment as Bilbo departed, and laid a strong hand on Sam's shoulder.  "Sam, do not empty our packs.  Take out the perishables but keep more travel food ready.  I want to be ready to flee in a moment's notice, if it comes to that."

       Sam nodded his understanding.  "Aye, sir.  We'll be ready."

* * * * *  

       Gimli stamped his heavy boot against the earth in demonstration.  "See, Lord Elrond?  I can shake the earth with just a stomp.  No use in trying to rebuild the path until you shore up the cliffside."  The Dwarf stamped again and all there felt the faint tremble under their feet.

       "Thank you, Master Dwarf," Elrond said hastily.  "Your point is well-taken."  Next to him, Glorfindel exhaled loudly as the ground steadied and Elrond shot him a reprimanding glance.  "Let us move back from the crevasse to safer ground."

       The Master of Rivendell turned his gaze up the sheer wall of stone, from which small slides of loose earth continued to fall.  There had been two smaller landslides after the avalanche, each catching the Elves unaware and almost trapping two as they climbed over the cliff face.  After that, Elrond had ordered everyone away from the area and sent for the Dwarf, swallowing his pride to ask the earth-son's advice.  

       To his credit, Gimli had not taken advantage of the Elf-lord's need to gain gentle payback for the animosity between his folk and the Elves.  Instead, the Dwarf had carefully examined the avalanche area, rumbling to himself under his breath, prodding the rock with a thick finger as if he could feel the cracking and weakness in the stone.

       Elrond sighed.  "Shore up the cliffside…  How would we do that, Master Dwarf?"

       "You might have to clear out this whole slab of rock before you can reach solid stone.  Once there, you will have to start building up the cliff from the bottom.  Hard work, that.  My people could do it, of course, but yours…"

       "Perhaps when this is over, I might speak with your lord, Master Gimli.  Perhaps we can reach an arrangement."

       Gimli looked up at him from beneath bristling brows, his smile almost hidden in his beard.  "Aye, my lord.  I think it would be well for your folk and mine to work again together, as they did in ancient days.  I, for one, would be glad to see those days again."

       Elrond stared at the stocky Dwarf in astonishment.   "When this is over," he mused.  "I too would like to see friendship between our peoples, Master Gimli.  But there is so much distrust to overcome, so much ill-feeling…"

       "Aye," the Dwarf agreed in a softer tone.  Both fell silent.

       "In times of war," the Elf-lord continued at length, "it is no bad thing to leave the path as it is.  It is one less way into Imladris that must be watched and guarded.  We will attempt no repair until times are peaceable again, and we need not fear the intentions of the travelers upon the road."

       Gimli nodded.  "I think that is wise, my lord."

       "My lord?"

       Elrond turned to Glorfindel, who had just finished speaking with another Elf.  "My lord, this scout reports that the Nazgûl has continued up the path and paused at the entrance to the trail.  The scout then returned, as you ordered.  He says that it did not seem to be in a hurry, and sat ahorse for a long time at the trail head, looking north."

       "North…" murmured the Elf-lord, the blood draining from his fine-boned face.  "My sons…"

       "Yes," Glorfindel confirmed, his own face white.  "Elrohir and Elladan and the halflings do not know the path is destroyed.  They are coming that way."

* * * * *

       "I want to stop," demanded Pippin.  "Please, let me down for a minute."

       Elladan glanced down at the young hobbit in amused exasperation.  "Pippin, we have stopped several times during the night.  You do not need to get down again."

       Pippin twisted 'round before the Elf so he could stare up into his face.  "I don't need to get down for _that_," he explained.  "Look at those flowers over there.  Wouldn't it be nice to take Frodo some?"

       "I could do with a walk," commented Merry from his seat before Elrohir.  The twins exchanged a smile between them and slowing their stallions, swung off them, lifting their small passengers down easily.  Inmara halted behind them with a twitch of her delicately pointed ears; she had plodded half-asleep behind them, making use of that marvelous equine ability to nap while walking.  The two hobbits swayed a moment on stiff legs but soon found their balance.  All four scouts had learned that frequent breaks to allow the hobbits to walk about kept their riding muscles from stiffening and spared them the unendurable agony they had suffered after their first day of hard riding.  They had traveled steadily since sunset of the previous day, eating a dinner on horseback of what food the twins had packed on their mounts (dried meat and stale cheese, much to the hobbits' disgust).  Pippin had offered to set snares, if they could stop for just an hour, but the twins would not allow the halt.  The two young hobbits had spent the night napping, sheltered by elvish arms that kept them safe and elvish cloaks that kept them warm.  Breakfast (drier meat and staler cheese) had been consumed ahorseback also, and the hobbits wanted to _stop_ for a while.

The twins stretched also, breaking out the horses' water bags and filling them from their water skins, holding the bags up to them for a drink.  This was the last open stretch before the narrow path that led into Imladris; once they reached the trail, it would be too narrow to dismount.   The twins conversed softly while the two hobbits gathered generous armloads of fall flowers; wild geraniums, columbine, iris and daffodils, buttercups and bluebells, wrapping their stalks in the shredded remains of Merry's cloak wetted from their water-skins.  The colorful and unwieldy bundles were tied to Inmara's packs, the old mare enduring this patiently.

      "Merry, Pippin, we must go now," called Elrohir.  "It is still several hours' ride to the House and you do not wish the flowers to wilt before you can present them to the Ringbearer."  Elrohir seemed uneasy and beside him, Elladan raised his dark head into the breeze like a stag scenting the wind.

       The twins traded a glance.  "Meriadoc, Peregrin," Elladan said softly, "come _now_.  We must leave this place."

       "Why?" asked Pippin, obediently allowing himself to be reseated on the gray stallion, which was dancing nervously.  Elrohir swung up behind Merry and leaned back to catch Inmara's rein.  Merry looked at him in surprise; the elderly mare had walked with her rein free since the previous morning.  

       "We need to get back," explained Elladan, which was not an explanation at all.  Pippin was about to pursue the subject when the stallion surged forward at a quick trot, not the easiest of paces to sit.  Pippin decided he'd rather not risk biting his tongue when he tried to speak and so opted for silence.  Elrohir followed with Inmara and Pippin saw Merry's face tighten as the jarring trot pained his injured arm.

        Pippin waited for Merry to ask the twins to shift to a slower pace that did not hurt his arm so.  Merry was clenching his teeth, his face pale, and Pippin decided that if his cousin would not speak, then _he_ certainly would.  Pippin gathered air to protest the speed at which they were moving for his cousin's sake when both stallions pulled up abruptly.  Pippin pitched forward in the saddle with a little involuntary "_whuff_."  He turned forward in the saddle, startled at the sudden cessation of movement.

       They stood not far from the trailhead of the northern path; Pippin remembered his sigh of relief as they had exited it.  Sheer rock on one side and a sheer drop on the other - he had felt that he couldn't draw in enough breath in that place.  Now shadows cloaked the narrow passage. Something dark stood in the deep shade just before where the path widened, its huge bulk scarcely able to negotiate the narrow, twisting way.  The shadows seemed to flow together and gel into a black shape that stood silent and still, waiting.  Evil flowed from it like an icy miasma.  Pippin stifled the cry that rose in his throat and leaned back against the rigid Elf.  It was a Black Rider.

* TBC *


	3. Homeward Bound

(Author's Note:  For those of you who have followed the saga of my reviewing problem, it looks like in trying to fix the problem, my account has been locked in "read-only" mode, denying me the ability to log into FanFiction.Net from my laptop.  As I now have to borrow a PC to access the site, updates might be sporadic until this is resolved.  Baylor, I think you've got the germ of a wonderful AU story there … Aragorn as a Black Rider – terrifying thought.  Firnsarnien, I enjoyed your little story.  A Elbereth, your question on M&P and the twins is answered this chapter.  Rose Cotton, I thought about that and decided that if Aragorn and the hobbits could hide from several Nazgûl for two weeks in the Wild, then Gandalf could do the same from one.  And I do think he would summon Shadowfax.  Leah Beth, thanks!  Shirebound, the flowers did have a use - perhaps a benediction.  Jay of Lasgalen, but as you know, "delight in torturing" your favorite characters makes an interesting story!  I am reminded of the prequel to this story, "Recovery in Rivendell," which I had originally intended as a light, cheerful tale.  _That_ lasted about five chapters…  For Coriandra and everyone who is used to my usual cliffhanger, I tried to not end this chapter on one.  Stretching is growing, an axiom also true in writing.  Don't get used to it, though … cliffhangers are fun!  Again, my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has so faithfully followed and/or reviewed this story.)

Chapter 3:  Homeward Bound

       The second cry that rose in the young hobbit's throat escaped Pippin, though he was not aware of it.  Vaguely, he felt Elladan tighten his grip around his waist, the Elf's arm around him almost painful.  Slowly, slowly, Elladan began backing his gray stallion from the silent, shadowed figure.  Behind him, Elrohir sat stiffly.  Merry, seated before him, was absolutely white.  The Black Rider did nothing, watching them, but the mount under it tossed its head and pawed the earth, eager for conflict and blood.

       Terror flowed from the still figure, cold and pain and despair, and the four riders that sat paired on their horses felt their hearts darken and their eyes dim.  Their limbs were frozen, their blood ice.  Not horse or Elf or hobbit could move as the Ringwraith shifted slowly in its saddle and drew its long sword.  Nothing could be seen of any human features under the black hood but it seemed to the petrified watchers that the featureless face smiled, and it kicked its mount brutally in the side, urging it a step forward.

      Merry pushed back against Elrohir, taking unconscious comfort in the Elf's strong frame.  The Elf sat motionless, the reins so tightly clenched in his long hands that the leather cut into his skin, drawing thin lines of blood across his palms.  But resolution burned in his dark eyes, and looking over to Elladan, Merry saw the same look there.  Then the hobbit felt gentle hands about his waist, and he was being dragged over the saddle to drop to the earth with an unavoidable jolt that jarred his broken arm agonizingly.  Merry stumbled, going to his knees, then reached up to catch the Elf's stirrup as Elrohir kneed his great gray stallion to stand beside that of his brother's.

       Pippin was struggling, fighting against Elladan's placing him on the ground and out of immediate harm's way.  The tweenager had wound his small hands tight in the Elf's cloak and from somewhere within himself, had summoned the presence of mind to hiss, "…no!  You won't put me down like a sack of laundry!  Elladan, we can fight, too!"

       "You cannot aid us, Pippin," came the Elf's soft reply.  "Elrohir and I will fight the better for knowing that you and Merry are safe.  It is two against one … despite what it is, perhaps we can take it."

       "You can't fight that thing," growled Merry from his one-handed grip on Elrohir's stirrup.  "You know you can't.  That … that _monster_ can't be finished in such a way.  Gandalf told us so.  You'll just be throwing your lives away."

      Elrohir shifted his weight in the saddle and the stallion obediently stepped away from Merry, pulling the stirrup from his grasp.  Elladan had drawn his sword and it gleamed coldly in the morning sun.  His face set, Elrohir drew his own sword and moved to stand aside his brother, their horses tossing their heads, white-rimmed eyes staring at the unnatural not-horse the Nazgûl sat.  Furious with impotence, Merry reached across with his left hand and drew his small sword, only to have it waver and almost fall from his uncertain grip.  He tried to grasp the hilt in his right hand, but the hand would not obey and he cried out as it slipped from his hold.

       Then Pip was by his side, taking the sword and sheathing it in Merry's scabbard.  "Not that way," Pippin whispered, his eyes never leaving the still tableau before him.  The hobbits felt the unseen eyes of the creature turn to them momentarily, then dismiss them, its attention once more on the young Elves.  "Merry," said Pippin softly, "listen to me -" 

      Elladan and Elrohir also turned their attention from the halflings, seeking within themselves the serenity and strength to deal with the Nazgûl.  Even their lord father had never faced one of the Nine directly.  Their minds following the same path as they had done since birth, the twins hoped that the little folk would survive and be able to tell their father and kin of their demise.  They could not destroy the Ringwraith, they knew, but if they could take from it it's mount, render it formless … then it would have to return to its master, empty and shapeless, until it could find a new mount to ride and a new form to wear.  If they could win just a little respite for the Ringbearer…

       After coming to the entrance of the narrow passageway, the Ringwraith had halted, apparently watching with relish the fear and pain its presence caused its victims.  Who could say what, if any, thoughts passed through the cold mind under that black hood?  Perhaps it only wanted to feel their terror and despair, drink in the horror it engendered in them.  But the single step forward was a challenge.  And the twins moved to meet it, their horses shaking their manes in fear.

       The black mount reared, great disfigured hooves pawing the air.  Then it came to earth again and the Ringwraith urged it into battle.  

       It seemed to the Elves that the beast lurched, and for the first time the Nazgûl seemed uncertain.  The hooded figure leaned forward in the saddle as its mount staggered.  All eyes were drawn to the beast's front hooves, where a leather sling was wrapping itself around the thick ankles.  The beast snorted, not understanding, and strove to take another step.

      Another slender rope of weighted leather sang through the air and wrapped itself around the first, pulling it tighter.  The beast half-reared and came down off-balance, unable to steady itself with its forelimbs immobilized.  Their hands now free, the hobbits knelt and gathered rocks to them.  Then the black beast was being peppered with small, sharp stones and it screamed in fury and pain.

      Merry and Pippin pitched more rocks, their hearts in their throats as the beast staggered again, its rider pulling cruelly on the bit.  More stones they held at the ready but they were not needed.  The black horse threw up its head, blood and foam dripping from its mouth.  Then it was falling to the side, going down, its enormous body slipping from the narrow path.  The Black Rider was jerked to the side by the animal's momentum, unable to spring free, constrained by the rock wall of the cliffside.  Its awful shriek rang out to join the beast's as the two fell to the rocky earth, and then slid from the narrow path to tumble down the cliff.  Those above watched in horror as the rider was rolled under the great beast and the two fell down the steep cliff, the sound of cracking bones drifting up to them on the wind.

       Forgotten for the moment, the mare Inmara moved past the stallions to the side of the cliff and looked down.  The old mare stood quietly for a moment, then shaking her pack, caused the multitude of wildflowers she carried to drift down upon the still, broken forms.

* * * * *

       "Elladan!  Elrohir!"  Forgetful of his dignity, the Lord of Imladris ran to almost where the crevasse began and stretched out his arms to his sons.  

       The two young Elves swung down from their mounts and lifted down two much smaller forms, confusion at the state of the path warring with the delighted smiles on all their faces.  The host of Imladris surged forward also, causing the Dwarf to roar with astonishing volume, directing them back from the uncertain ground at the brink.  Laughing in relief, Elrond ordered his people back, motioning to his sons and the hobbits also to retreat.  Gimli grumbled something under his breath, and it was perhaps good for the fragile relations between Elves and Dwarves that none heard his remarks.  None but Aragorn, who laughed and kept his silence.

       Amidst much waving and calling back and forth, news was exchanged of the Ringwaith's fate and the destruction of the way.  Aragorn, sure-footed and careful, guided by Gimli's shouted instructions, cautiously inched his way across the slide area till he at last were pulled by safety by the twins.  The three brothers hugged each other in joy and relief, and then swept the hobbits into up their embrace.   

      "_Merry and Pippin_ saved you?" repeated the Ranger, disbelief in his voice.  

      "You needn't sound so surprised," responded Pippin, wiggling to be set down.  Elladan did so, laughing.

      "It was Pip's idea," put in Merry, who was having his arm examined by Aragorn.  The Ranger gently pushed Pippin's curly head out of his line of sight, the youngster watching his cousin's treatment with attention.  

       "It is certainly a tale for the bards," Aragorn said straight-faced.  "With slings and stones, you were able to accomplish what an Elf-lord and his host  could not with an avalanche."  He laid the knife back against the break and carefully wrapped up the hobbit's arm, aligning the wrist straight and checking that the bandaging was not too tight.  Merry grimaced.  Seeing that, Aragorn gave the hobbit's shoulder a gentle squeeze and rose to his feet.  "We will have to turn the horses and go back, select another path.  If we ride without stopping for lunch or dinner, we can be home before sunset."

      "We haven't any food anyway," replied Pippin sadly.

       Aragorn solemnly reached into his belt and produced two strips of dried meat, which he gave to the young hobbits.  Pippin wrinkled his nose but took the rock-hard offering.  "There," commented the Ranger.  "Now, we must go.  Elrond awaits the information you gathered on the mercenaries, Elrohir.  And I have no doubt that Frodo and Sam and Bilbo await the return of these two young miscreants."

       "Miscreants!" objected the hobbits in unison.  

       Aragorn laughed and laid a hand on each small shoulder to guide them back to the horses.  "As I recall, you still have several days of penance to serve in Rivendell for your … um … activities."

       Pippin choked on his bite of dried meat.  "Oh…  Oh, yes.  But Aragorn!  Wait until I tell you about my bread sculpture!"

       Merry groaned and covered his face with his good hand as the Ranger swung him up before Elladan.

* * * * *

      "Do you see them yet?"

      "No, Mr. Frodo."  Sam took a final look out the window then hopped down off the bench and reseated himself beside his master and old Mr. Bilbo.  The sun was westering and it was growing cold.  Despite the two messengers that Lord Elrond had sent back, one with news of the failed avalanche then another reporting the scouts' safe return, the hobbits were anxious.  The second messenger had had little to say about the hobbits, except to report that one had his arm in a sling.  

       After watching the reunited scouting party depart (Aragorn riding the old mare), Elrond had ordered his people home.  Lights were being lit now around the hidden valley, their soft glow illuminating the windows and courtyards of the Last Homely House, the scent of fall flowers in the air.  The hobbits waited impatiently, Sam making good use of his time by arranging a small feast of dishes dear to the hearts of hobbit-folk.  Those dishes sat now in Frodo's room, steaming gently on hot bricks, their enticing aromas drifting on the cooling air.

       At last they heard the eager rush of bare feet on the polished floors, and two small forms burst from the corridor into the room.  Merry and Pippin skidded to a stop at the sight of their cousin and friend, who, along with Bilbo, had risen to greet them.  Frodo was pale, unsteady on his feet – he had  obviously been ill again.  Sam was favoring a bright-red welt on his forearm and sporting a spectacular black eye.  The cousins felt themselves being inspected in return.  Merry, bruised and battered with his arm in a sling, and Pippin, a nicely-swollen cut under his eye and his clothes dirty and torn.  Four voices rang out with identical words – "What happened to _you_?"

* TBC *


	4. A Party and A Purpose

(Author's Note: At long last, my reviewing problem has been resolved and I am happily catching up on all the reviews I owe. Nilmandra, you were right – it was a problem between my cookies and pop-up windows and Windows XP. FF.Net has now identified a bug in their software that conflicts with XP; my emails helped track down the bug and they are working to resolve it. Good did come out of all that aggravation after all… Kay, thank you! Lily Baggins, scenes among the hobbits are my favorite to write. I choose my POV and wish I were one of them… Kit, to be called an 'inspiration' is humbling. Now I must work even harder to live up to that. Elbereth, M&P _are_ clever, aren't they? There are two sharp minds under those curls. Leah Beth, we often don't give M&P the credit they deserve; I was happy to, here. Arabella thorne, thanks for telling me how much you enjoyed it the update. Coriandra, no fear, Elrond is too just for that. Firnsarnien, I've already been threatened with having to buy a new computer and being sent medical bills for stress, so go ahead, throw in the manicures. Pansy Chubb, that is the essence of a t(w)eenager, isn't it? Advenureness and a galloping lack of good sense. A Elbereth and katakanadian, thanks for your commiseration during the problems with FF.Net – your sympathy helped. Rose Cotton, M&P would just glow at your words. Baylor and shirebound, my hobbits are so rooted in yours that any compliment given them is a reflection of your own writing. Thanks, everyone, for your continued support.) 

Chapter 4:  A Party and A Purpose 

      That evening, as darkness flowed over Rivendell, many reunions took place in the rooms and halls of the Last Homely House.  Some were more quiet and dignified than others, but all were heart-felt.  The most raucous was held in the Ringbearer's room, and Elves passing along the corridor smiled to hear hobbit-voices raised in cheerful song or verse.  It was astonishing how much noise hobbits, usually a quiet folk, could make.  The party was much enlivened by Bilbo's contribution of two bottles of Old Winyards, carefully carted by pony to Imladris and saved for a very special occasion.

       Every scrap of dinner had been eaten by the time the Master of Rivendell came to make formal thanks to the heroes of the day.  The four younger hobbits rose from their places and bowed deeply; Bilbo, by virtue of age, sat back and enjoyed the show.  Lord Elrond startled them all by bowing just as deeply in return, the heavy sleeves of his copper-colored mantle sweeping the floor.  With a graceful wave of his hand, he gestured them to be seated.  Then for a long time he regarded them with eyes that had seen the passing of hundreds of thousands of days, and would see the ending of this Age and the birth of all Ages to follow.

       "There are no words," he said at last, "to thank you for the lives of my sons."

       Merry slid to his feet and bowed again.  "My lord," he replied softly, "you do us too much honor.  Pippin and I –" and here he turned to find his younger cousin hanging over his shoulder, "we knew Elrohir and Elladan could not defeat a Black Rider.  It was Pip's idea to attack the horse and drive it over the cliff.   Much the same as you did when you summoned the waters at the Ford of Bruinen, sir."

      The Elf-lord nodded slowly, his deep eyes never leaving their faces.  Then his gaze shifted and met that of the elderly hobbit.  "Our way of fighting," murmured Bilbo softly, knowing the Elf could hear.  Lord Elrond inclined his head in acknowledgement.

      "Nevertheless," Lord Elrond said to the young hobbits, "it was a most intelligent and courageous action."  Pippin blushed bright red, enhancing the red flush painting the tip of his nose and points of his ears from several glasses of powerful wine.  Merry stood a little straighter and resisted the urge to stick his hands in his pockets.  Frodo looked near to bursting with pride for his kin and Sam was unabashedly grinning from ear to ear.  Elrond stood before them, tall and still, his considering gaze looking past them at something they could not see.  At last he spoke again.  "It is small recompense for the lives of my children, but tomorrow night I am holding a feast in your honor.  All of my people will have the opportunity to thank you for what you did."  He smiled at them, then, his stern face softening.  "As for my thanks, I have some small gifts for you before you depart.  And you are released from all … obligations … placed upon you for in reparation for The Wager."

       "Thank you, my lord," both chorused, relief evident on their faces.  Tomorrow had been their morning to muck out the stables and sore and stiff, they had not been looking forward to it.  Merry had already been worrying if he could work one-handed.

       From his great height and immortal being, the Elf-lord studied at the two bright lives burning beneath him.  The halflings grinned up at him, entirely undaunted.  The faintest of footfalls came to Master of Imladris' ears.  "And," said Elrond with a smile, "I believe my daughter also would like to thank you for saving her brothers."

       At that moment there was a soft tap at the door and it opened to admit Arwen Evenstar.  The lamps from outside the room framed her slender figure in light, and for a moment, it seemed the light came from within her form and was reflected out from her.  The seated hobbits, Bilbo included, rose to bow as the Evenstar smiled at them in greeting.  She wore a dress of white silk shot with clear beads, like raindrops sparkling, and her dark hair flowed free and unbound over her shoulders.

       "Meriadoc and Peregrin," she began, then broke off and suddenly knelt before them and to their utmost astonishment, caught them in a hug.  She released them and drew back but did not rise, looking deeply into their eyes with her hands on their shoulders.  Both hobbits were suddenly very aware that they had not been to the bathhouse yet, and that their clothes were dirty and torn.  And knew that Arwen Undómiel cared for none of this.  Gently she cupped her long hands around each small face and placed a kiss on their foreheads.  "Thank you," she whispered, and then left them.

       Elrond's dark eyes crinkled in amusement to see the expression of the halflings' faces; shock and awe and pride and embarrassment and … exultation.  He coughed gently to recapture their attention.  "Now," he continued, "I wish to look at your injuries, so heroically won and borne.  Young Peregrin, may I see that cut, please?"

       Pippin didn't move.  His gaze remained fastened to the door, where Arwen had exited.  

       "Peregrin?  I wish to examine that cut under your eye."  The tweenager neither moved nor spoke.  "Pippin?"

       "It's no use, my lord," said Merry resignedly.  "You could hit him with a brick and he wouldn't notice."  The older cousin looped his arm through the younger's and tugged him over to the Elf-lord.  Pippin's gaze remained unfocused, a silly smile on his sharp face that never faltered as his hurt was cleaned and bandaged.

* * * * *  

       Gandalf stopped by after Elrond left, as did Aragorn and the twins and numerous other people.  Many brought bottles or cordials with them, and the ongoing party gradually grew louder and more boisterous.  Gimli produced a square bottle containing a sour vintage, brown as the earth, strong smelling, that burned like fire down an unsuspecting throat.  Gandalf and Bilbo greeted this addition to their liquid supplies with delight.  Frodo choked and gasped upon tasting it and refused to allow either of his younger cousins so try it, though Merry noted that Frodo evidently decided it grew better with repeat use.

       Elves might not be a folk for outward revelry, Sam decided, but they knew how to throw a party.  They were not as loud as hobbits would be, and he missed hearing a band, but to hear those melodious voices raised in song was a rare treat indeed.  As the night wore on, Sam wished he knew more than just a few words of the elven language, for the Lord Elrond's sons raised their clear voices in what he guessed what a song of very questionable taste, to guess by old Mr. Bilbo's red face and the bright blush his own master was wearing.  Sam resolved to start expanding his vocabulary on the morrow.

       Nevertheless, Sam was relieved when their hosts noted their guests' weariness and began drifting away to continue their parties elsewhere, with many bows and generous words of praise of his master's cousins.  Sam was proud of Mr. Merry and Master Pippin too, and made a point of reminding himself of that on the morrow, when he rather thought the two young hobbits (and his master and Mr. Bilbo) would be paying for all those glasses of wine and shots from Gimli's bottle.

* * * * *

       The following morning was one of the quietest that Imladris had seen in many long days.  Instead of being thrown open to the morning sun, drawn drapes adorned many of the glassless windows and the kitchens had so few orders for breakfast that the head cook released half of his staff.  Almost the only requests for food came in from the little people, much less than they usually ate and including several glasses of raw eggs stirred into orange juice.  The head cook shuddered but sent over the trays.

       In the Ringbearer's room, an odd discussion was underway.   Bilbo had declined to join his kin this morning, remarking cryptically before he left the previous night (more accurately, in the early morn) that he doubted that his nephew and cousins would be in the mood for company.  

       "Master," Sam wheedled, "Mr. Gimli said you'll feel better if you drink this."

       One bloodshot blue eye peered from beneath the sheltering covers.  Sam held out one of the small glasses of orange juice and raw egg, and regarded Frodo worriedly as his master's face took on a green cast.   "Oh, Sam," Frodo moaned, "take it away.  _Please_."  The eye disappeared under the blankets again.

       Sam tried a firmer tone.  "Sir, you know you got to eat."  No response.  "Lord Elrond told me 'ta make sure you eat, Mr. Frodo."  Nothing except a barely audible groan.  

      Sam straightened and looked over to Merry for help.  His master's cousin lay sprawled in one of the chairs, head over the one armrest and knees over the other, a damp washcloth over his eyes.   Master Pippin sat on the floor, leaning back against Merry's chair, watching Sam's efforts with interest.  The tweenager seemed the least affected of all of them, Sam mused, and wished he could transfer just a little of his own headache to the youngster.

      Rubbing his forehead, Sam sat the glass down and drifted over to the other two, dropping into one of the empty chairs.  Merry lifted the washcloth and favored him with a red-eyed, squinting stare.  "No luck?"

      "No," growled Samwise.  "I can't tell Lord Elrond I didn't get him 'ta eat.  I _can't_." 

      "Well, what did you do the last time Frodo got drunk?" asked Merry reasonably, despite the expression of pain on his own face.

      The bloodshot blue eye appeared again.  "I resent that, Meriadoc."  The eye narrowed.  "I hardly make a habit of it.  And I note that you drank rather a lot last night, too."

      "He was sick in the garden before we took our baths," interjected Pippin helpfully.  Merry took off the washcloth and glared at him.  Pippin looked apologetic and scooted out of reach of Merry's newly rebandaged arm.  Sam stared determinedly at the carved beams of the ceiling, relieved beyond measure to hear a knock at the door that interrupted the impending squabble.

       "Gandalf!" said Sam loudly, to alert Frodo and his cousins.  The wizard winced and pushed a small sack into Sam's hands.  "Good morning, Samwise.  I see that one of us had the sense not to over-imbibe last night."  Sam grinned at him.  "Though it was rather a good party, wasn't it?" Gandalf grinned back.

       Escorting the wizard into the room, Sam was pleased to see that his master and Mr. Merry were now sitting up and Master Pippin had taken a chair.  Sam led Gandalf to another and offered refreshment.  Gandalf shook his gray head and winced again at the movement.

       "No thank you, Sam.  I have come to offer you a remedy for last night's – celebration.  Pour two teaspoons of that sack into glasses of water, Sam, and pass them around.  I'll take one, too.  Elrond wants you able to function by luncheon."

       Frodo paused in accepting the glass from Sam, sniffing at its fizzing contents suspiciously.  "He does?  Why?"

       The humorous, if pained, glint in Gandalf's eyes faded.  "My friends, our Quest is to begin soon.  The scouts that Elrond sent out to learn the state of affairs beyond his boarders have returned.  Your party," and those sharp eyes turned to Merry and Pippin, "was the last.  We may not have many days to prepare and there is still much to do."

       Frodo accepted the plate Sam had filled and handed him, his attention on Gandalf.  "What must we do?"

       Gandalf paused for another sip of his fizzing water before he spoke.   "Elrond and I wish to see that you all are as prepared as possible for any dangers or demands we encounter upon the way.  Towards that end, those of you who cannot set a snare" (Pippin stuck out his chest), "or paddle a canoe" (Sam blanched), "or handle weapons" (Frodo paled), "will learn to do so."   Merry stared at the wizard thoughtfully.

       The wizard returned the young hobbit's stare, then turned to Frodo.  "Though you have been given companions, Ringbearer," Frodo looked up, his expression strained, "it is always possible that you may become separated from them.  It would be well if you have the wherewithal to defend and support yourselves, should that happen."

       Frodo nodded.  "I agree, Gandalf.  We will be ready." 

       Gandalf rose to leave, then turned back to the suddenly sobered hobbits.  "Do not let your hearts be troubled," he counseled them, his lined face surprisingly gentle, "though we go forward into darkness and darkness will follow after, we carry the hope of Middle-earth and all Free Peoples with us."  Then he swept from the room, his staff clicking on the polished wooden floor.

      Frodo sought Merry's eyes, to find his cousin looking back at him sorrowfully.  "That gives me little comfort," the Ringbearer whispered.

* TBC *


	5. AfterLuncheon Lessons

(Author's Note:  Thanks to everyone for their commiserations on my poor crushed fingers.  They are better now but I'm still taking the typing slow.  French Pony, re your question on the spiderwebs used in "The Ruin of Men and Elves," I researched their healing properties on the Internet.  Most useful was Aubrey Fine's _Handbook On Animal-Assisted Therapy: Theoretical Foundations And Guidelines For Practice_, Washington: Academic Press, 1999.  Coriandra, I'll bet Elladan and Elrohir could come up with several quite shocking songs.  Long lives would give them endless time to collect them and appreciate them.  A Elbereth, thank you for the compliment.  Have you ever read _LotRs_ aloud?  I love the meter of it, almost prose.  Baylor, I enjoy seeing the more 'human' side of the hobbits.  That must be why I love _your_ stories so much.   Shirebound, "Ringbearer" affects me the same way.  Instant knots-in-the-stomach.  Tathar and arabella thorne, I'm glad you enjoyed the party … a brief respite before the work begins.  Firnsarnien, there's a delightful short story in there somewhere.  Leah Beth, I wavered over having Gandalf spoil the hobbits' fun with that little declaration … would he do that or not.  Finally decided … yup, he would.  Kay, thank you.  LilyBaggins, you are right (again).  The fun's over, hobbits…  QTPie-2488, it was fun to write the hobbit 'hangover' scene.  Right out of my [very rare] college night-afters.  Camellia Gamgee-Took, thank you for the compliment and you keep writing.  You'll hear that said to you one of these days.  Rose Cotton, I know college demands press upon you heavily but I hope you can steal a few moments for ff.net now and then.  I miss your illuminating and intelligent reviews.  Thank you, all, for your continued interest in this [apparent] saga.)

Chapter 5:  After-Luncheon Lessons

       It was a sorry-looking group of hobbits that gathered at the white-wooded gazebo after luncheon.  In addition to wincing at the bright winter sunlight, the hobbits kept wiping tearing eyes and rubbing their foreheads.  The four were quiet and subdued and Elrond, watching them from the comfort of his folding chair, thought it most unnatural.  They seemed to need the reassurance of one another's presences.  If one wandered out of the others' sight for more than a few moments, the others would unanimously seek him.  Bilbo was perhaps the worst of all, his gray head turning constantly to keep the younger hobbits under his watchful eye.

       Elrond had considered excusing the four from the day's planned lessons, but Gandalf had vetoed the suggestion.  The Ringbearer was as healed as he could be without a long rest, and time pressed upon them urgently.  Outside of the Elf-lord's borders, evil gathered.  The reports of marching Men and Orcs that Elladan and Elrohir and the other scouts had returned with were troubling.  Even now, there might be malicious eyes watching the borders of Imladris, waiting to mark the Fellowship's departure.  Involuntarily, Elrond's dark eyes rose to the sheer cliff-sides of his home, waterfalls sparkling in the sun.  How beautiful his home … even in the encroaching decay of passing time.  The blues and grays of the sheer stone walls, the constant rain of autumn leaves in gold and orange and crimson…  The gilded leaves reminded him of the spectacular blossoming of the halflings' bruises and his mind returned to the uneasy tableau of hobbits before him.

       Bumps and bruises, contusions and cuts…  The Ringbearer seemed the least incapacitated, though Elrond noted that Frodo kept an arm looped through his servant's and his steps were measured and uncertain.  The healer in him cried out against pushing them before they had rested and recovered, but truly, there was no more time for such considerations.  The Fellowship must depart - and soon.

       As if he had caught Elrond's thought, Frodo raised his dark head and met the Elf-lord's gaze.  The hobbit smiled tremulously and Elrond was gladdened to see that the little one held no acrimony against him for the rough treatment he had forced upon the hobbit to sedate him.  This unexpected ability to sense the nearness of the Nazgûl might be a true asset … if Frodo could control his fear.

       "What do you think?' Gandalf's scratchy voice sounded in his ear, and for a moment, the immortal Elf-lord had to struggle to overcome his startlement.  The wizard chuckled.  "Not often do I catch you off-guard," he murmured.  "What weighty thoughts so concern you, my friend?"

       Elrond motioned for another chair but Gandalf shook his head and dropped comfortably to the soft earth, stretching out his legs before him and leaning back on his arms.  "I was wishing that we could re-arrange the timing of the world," the Master of Rivendell replied wryly.  "Elves do not mark the passing of time … and are unused to being pressured by its demands."

       Gandalf nodded.  "I, too, wish we could give them more time."  He leaned forward and drew in his legs cross-wise, running his gnarled hands along the timeworn wood of his staff.  "Time for them to heal, to rest … to learn and prepare themselves."  With that, he set aside the staff and rested his hands on his knees.  "What is the schedule?"

      The Elf-lord's gaze swept over the quiet halflings.  "Samwise and Meriadoc are to work with young Legolas learning knife-fighting.  Merry throws a wicked knife but has not learned close-contact work.  He may not use his right hand yet but may the left, if he can.  I personally do not think Samwise has the speed for such fighting, but we shall see.  He has asked to try again, at any rate.  That speaks well of him.  Peregrin and the Ringbearer are to work with Boromir today.  Both are very quick.  Pippin tends to become excited and forgets his teaching, but then, he is young.  Frodo is perhaps the opposite; he tries to absorb everything he is told and becomes impatient with himself if he cannot gain immediate proficiency."

       The wizard chuckled, blue eyes warming.  Legolas had arrived and was speaking with all the hobbits.  They were crowding about him like curly-topped children around a sweets-vendor, examining the knives he had brought with great interest.  Merry looked eager and Sam apprehensive.  "A most succinct summary.  You have gathered all this from your observations?"

       "And from Estel's reports.  I do not think Merry and Pippin have yet figured out that the scouting trip on which Aragorn took them was equally to take their measure."

       "And what have you and he decided?"  The words were casual, but Elrond felt the weight of worry behind them.

      "That these little folk are a marvel.  They have the hearts and courage of lions.  And a brightness of spirit that astonishes this weary old Elf."

       Gandalf laughed outright then, his eyes sparkling with mirth.  He sobered as Boromir strode into the little area, undersized wooden practice-swords clanking in his large hands.  The hobbits sobered also, anxious at being parted.  Bilbo squeezed Frodo's shoulder gently and began to make his way slowly towards the Elf-lord and the wizard.

        "They are afraid of Boromir," said Gandalf very softly.

        "Cautious, rather," returned Elrond.  "He is very large to them, loud and brash.  I have counseled the Man that he should treat them gently until they know him better."

        "And Boromir's response?" asked Gandalf.

        "I do not think he appreciated my advice," the Elf-lord replied.  "But he will be a good teacher.  He has a good and generous heart, I think.  Perhaps the hobbits' joy of life will remind him that there is still much worth saving in Middle-earth."

* * * * *

       "Enough!  Hold!  Hold!"  Boromir physically placed himself between Pippin and his too-enthusiastic attack of his older cousin.  Frodo staggered back, gratefully taking shelter behind the soldier.  Pippin lowered his wooden sword and grinned up at the Man, perspiration running freely down his sharp face.

       "Very good, Pippin," the Man said and the tweenager's whole face lit up, green-gold eyes shining.  "But you must remember that the point of the sword is dangerous, too.  Thrust, don't hack."

       "But these swords are blunt, Boromir," Pippin explained.  "Why can't we use our own swords?"

       "Because I do not wish to be cut to pieces, thank you very much," replied Frodo, regaining his breath.  The exercise had invigorated him, chasing the last of the drug from his system.  His shoulder ached abominably and he rolled it with a wince.  He drew in a deep breath and laughed at Pippin's expression.

       "Hah!  If you were not such a slug-a-bed, Cousin, you would be faster," Pip grinned in return, then grimaced at the other two as they sought seats in the shaded gazebo to rest.  "Are you going to just sit there?  I want to go another round."

       Frodo turned sideways on the white bench and laid himself down, standing the practice-sword in the corner.  "Pippin, why don't you go find Merry and Sam and show them what you've learned?  I imagine they are ready for a rest, too."

       Pippin's answer to that was a whoop.  He was gone in a flurry of furry feet before Boromir or Frodo could remind him not to interrupt the others' practice.  Frodo drew breath to call after him, and then exhaled it in a _whoosh_.  Boromir glanced at him and Frodo shook his head ruefully.

       "Are all young halflings so…"  Boromir paused, seeking a tactful description, "…energetic?"

       Frodo smiled at him, somewhat shy now that it was just the two of them.  He had spoken with the Man several times but had not really much contact with him yet.  He felt more comfortable with the ethereal Elves than this fellow mortal.  "Pippin is very young, Boromir.  And his clan is known for being rather … impetuous."

       "Impetuous," muttered Boromir.  "That's a good word."

       Frodo sat up and began swinging his legs idly while the cool breeze dried the sweat on his face and body.  He had removed his cloak but kept his jacket on, not warm despite the bright sun and exercise.  He lifted his face and breathed deeply, rejoicing in that simple action.  Suddenly aware of the silence, he glanced beside him to see the Man staring at his feet.

       The Man colored when he realized the hobbit had followed his stare.  "I mean no offense," Boromir said hurriedly.  "You are a folk out of children's legends for us."

       "None taken," returned Frodo equitably.  "My kin and I have not had much experience with Big Folk, either.  Other than Gandalf.  Is there something you would wish to ask of me?"

        The Man was quiet for a moment, debating with himself.  Then he blurted, "How can you walk on such big feet?"

       "How can you walk on such little feet?"

       The two smiled at each other.  "I think we shall be friends," said Frodo after a moment.

* * * * *      

       Pippin found the others in a small clearing some way from the gazebo, out of earshot of he and Frodo and Boromir.  On the way over, he had achieved total victory over a prickle-bush that had dared to snag his cloak.  Then he had cleaned his sword as Boromir had taught him, and guiltily kicked the broken branches out of sight under a gorse-bush.

       The combatants were so intent upon their lesson that his arrival went unnoticed.  After watching for a moment, Pippin selected a soft-looking grassy hillock in the shade and eased himself down to lean against a tree, using the inborn unobtrusiveness of his kind to avoid distracting Merry and Sam.  Legolas stood back from them, providing solo instruction as Glorfindel had other duties that day.  The two hobbits were circling each other, a blade in one hand, the other held up and spread for balance and defense.  Legolas watched them carefully, his light, clear voice providing constant coaching.  They didn't use practice-blades, Pippin noted, then remembered the cut on Sam's hand from his previous bout and decided that wooden swords were not such a bad thing.

       Samwise was panting, his round face florid but determined.  Merry moved more gracefully, light on his feet, his face equally resolute, the knife held in his left hand.  Pippin felt a surge of pride in his cousin as Merry easily avoided Sam's rush, springing away and whirling to tap the stocky hobbit on the back with the hilt of his blade.  

       "Good!" cried Legolas.  "Well done, both of you!"

       Sam lowered his blade with a groan, wiping his face with his sleeve.  Merry laughed, rubbing his right forearm with the left hand.   "All right there, Sam?" he asked.

       "All right, Mr. Merry," Sam puffed.  "You're not hurtin' your arm, are you?"

       Legolas caught Merry's arm in a light grasp, turning the wrist up to examine it for swelling.  "Enough for today, I think," the Elf commented.  "You must not overtax that healing break, Master Meriadoc.  Lord Elrond would have my head."

      "It is a little sore, Legolas," Merry responded.  "But not terribly so.  Look."  So saying, Merry flipped the blade from his left hand to his right, and with a graceful flowing movement, drew his arm back over his shoulder and threw the knife easily towards the shadowed bole of a convenient tree.

       A shrill scream resounded through the little clearing.  _"Pippin!"_ cried Merry.

* TBC *


	6. As Evening Falls

(Author's Note:  Kit, you were right … picked up on that foreshadowing.  Good for you!  QTPie-2488, I fear only death will cure my sadistic plotting of cliffhanger chapter-endings.  But I give you a break now and then…  Shirebound, I really did try a warm, fuzzy-feeling chapter but couldn't maintain it.  A Elbereth, it was Merry's knife not his sword, but he did indeed [accidentally] do that.  Frodomeg, thank you.  Reviews like that encourage me.  Firnsarnien, one of the things that fascinates me about _LotRs_ is that there is literally _no end_ to possible plots and developments.   Endymion, I understand the meaning of your review.  Rivendell hasn't exactly been a time of rest for them, has it?  Leah Beth, thank you.  I would like to expand the character development of the Fellowship's Big People in this story.  Emma, I'm honored to help.  Isn't it fun to see all of our different M&Ps?   Elwen, good comparison.  I'm enjoying your new story, though it is being read with blurry eyes.  Arabella thorne, you summed it up perfectly.   Kay, I just beamed when I read your comment.  Thank you.  Pansy Chubb, yes, and Pippin's going to take shameless advantage of that.   Baylor, isn't it great to see non-standard relationships?  I love how you have brought Legolas and Gimli into "Fate and the High King's Falcon."  LilyBaggins, I think 'my' hobbits are going to be ready to leave Rivendell.  Less danger on the Road…    Thanks, everyone.  That can't be said enough times.)

Chapter 6:  As Evening Falls

       Boromir was surprised when his conversation partner abruptly fell silent in the middle of a question, curly head turning distractedly.  Seeing the sudden expression of intense listening on the halfling's face, the man waited courteously to recapture his attention.  When the Ringbearer's agitation did not end for long moments, Boromir ventured, "Frodo, is something wrong?  You seem -"

        He started in alarm as the hobbit swung off the bench to his feet, all traces of weariness gone.  The Ringbearer did not seem to be aware of him and the man was growing concerned.  Boromir knew that the little one had almost died of his injuries upon arriving in Rivendell, and his healing had been slow and marred by setbacks since.  Had the strenuous exercise of sword-play been too much, and he was falling ill again?

       Then Frodo was running, running with astonishing swiftness for one so small, past the still-seated man and out of the garden.  Unsure of what he should do, Boromir followed, his long strides quickly becoming a run as he strove to overtake the accelerating hobbit.  

       He emerged in a small clearing some good way from the garden, catching his hands on a nearby sapling to steady himself.   Before him was confusion.  There seemed to be one of the little people on the ground, and one bending over him.  Another was cradling the downed one's head, bright curls mingling with the bronze curls of the other as he couched over him.  The Elf was kneeling beside the still form, and Frodo was just skidding to a stop before the small scene, shouting, _"Pippin!"_

       Boromir propelled himself into the little glade, falling to his knees just as the Elf was rising.  Their eyes met for a moment, mortal hazel and immortal blue, both wide with fears unnamed.  "It was ill chance," whispered the Elf.  "I will go for help.  Will you do what you can?"  

       Boromir nodded wordlessly, his hands already tearing at the little one's clothing.  In a breath, the Elf was gone.  Samwise had pulled back Pippin's cloak and loosened his scarf.  Beside him, Merry seemed in shock, his face utterly without color, trembling violently.  He was stroking the tweenager's face, murmuring over and over, "Wake up, Pip dear.  Wake up.  Please wake up!" 

       Frodo caught his cousin's arms and pulled him away from the unmoving figure, giving Boromir room to work.  Merry struggled, hardly aware of his cousin's presence, unhearing of the comforting words Frodo sought to murmur in his ear.  Unobstructed now, Boromir ripped the small jacket apart and slightly grubby white shirt beneath it, flipping the youngster's scarf out of the way.  Sam crouched beside him, more collected than either of the youngster's cousins.  "Mr. Merry threw a knife," he explained to Boromir softly.  "It hit Pippin by accident.  Master Pip was sitting in a shaded hollow before the tree an' we didn't see him."  Boromir nodded, his attention on recalling what he knew of treating battle-injuries.  Where was the wound?  There was no great gout of blood staining the pale skin anywhere that he could see.

        Suddenly the little one's face creased up and his eyes opened.  "Owwww!" wailed Pippin.

        "Pip … Pippin?" gasped Merry, tearing himself from Frodo's restraining grasp with the sound of ripping cloth.

        "Ow," repeated Pippin resentfully.  "Merry, why did you hit me?"

        "I … I hit you?"  Merrry said stupidly.  Pippin sat up and commenced to rub the crown of his curly head.  Boromir fell back, hands raised, uncertain if he should forced the hobbit down again.  Pippin's slightly unfocused eyes completed the circuit of anxious faces and he stared at them.  

        "Hullo, Frodo.  Hullo, Boromir.  What are you doing here?"

       _"Are you all right?"_

       Pippin's gaze shot back to Merry, startled.  "Of course I'm all right.  You needn't have hit me though, Merry.  I was just watching."

       Merry's small hands were suddenly burrowing through Pippin's curls.  Pippin, having his head forced down, emitted a series of loud, "Ow!  Ow! Ow!" interspersed with "Merry, stop that!"

       The hobbit's hands parted the thick hair on either side of a growing bump almost directly on top of the tweenager's head.  Merry's gaze traveled to a small tree limb that lay, rocking slightly, to the side.  Then up to the white scar on the bark, bleeding beads of fresh sap.  His knife quivered there, driven deep into the trunk, having parted the last remaining strip of bark that had held the branch from falling.  Merry stood up and abruptly fell over in a dead faint.

* * * * *

         Legolas was still fighting to even his breathing.  Elven-swift, he had run back to the garden to find it deserted, the Master of Rivendell and Mithrandir long departed.  He had flown then to Elrond's study, calling frantically to the Imladris Elves for the whereabouts of their lord.  The lord's secretary had instructed him to go to the Library and shoved Elrond's medical kit into Legolas' hands.  It was here that the young Elf found the two, pouring over Elrond's gem-encrusted topographical map.  Gasping out his news, the three had hurried back to the scene of the accident at quite an undignified pace.  They (and what seemed half of Imladris) had arrived just in time to here a petulant Pippin announce, "I want to get up!  Will you get _off _me, Merry!"

        Pippin had been difficult about having the bump examined and not at all pleased at being told to hold still while Elrond cleaned it and applied a plaster.  After having the little one follow his finger and examining his pupils carefully, Elrond rather thought that young Meriadoc was more in need of his skills.  Elrond stood back and watched as Boromir carried the young hobbit away, the other three clustered around the Man's tall form and getting in his way.  Legolas walked beside him, endeavoring the keep the three from tripping the Man as they pressed close in their concern.  Pippin peered back over his shoulder, still looking surprised at all the commotion, but also rather pleased at being carried and enjoying the high vantage point.  

       "How can four such small beings create such an uproar," the Elf-lord asked rhetorically.  "My household has not known a moment's calm since they arrived.  After they leave, it will take at least a millennium of peace and quiet to restore my shattered nerves."  He raised a slender, fine-boned hand and rubbed at his high brow.  "The ancient philosophers spent much time in pursuit of the mythological perpetual-motion machine … an everlasting, self-sustaining source of energy.  I submit they examine hobbits."

       Too out of breath to respond, Gandalf had merely leaned against his staff and chuckled. 

* * * * * 

        As further practice was out of the question for the day, Elrond had directed the hobbits off to the bathhouse to wash and rest themselves in preparation for the feast the Elf-lord had called in gratitude of Merry and Pippin's saving of his sons' lives.  Pippin had greeted this suggestion with such enthusiasm (except for the bath) that Elrond dismissed any further concerns for his health. 

        Frodo and Merry kept a close eye on their younger cousin as the tweenager paddled happily in the steamy, frothy bath, making sure that he did not overexert himself.  Pippin was deriving entirely too much enjoyment out of teasing the apprehensive Sam, who was clinging like grim death to the side of the wall, refusing to respond to the youngster's assurance that he would not drown should he venture out past the benches on which they stood.  

       The two elder cousins leaned back comfortably in the warm water, reveling in the easing of their aches.   Frodo watched Merry's eyes following Pippin's every splash.  Finally he leaned over and nudged his cousin gently.  "Relax, Merry," Frodo said softly.  "He's all right."

       Merry nodded jerkily.  "I may drown him myself if he doesn't quit tormenting Sam."

       Frodo laughed and inhaled deeply to plunge his head under the water.  Shaking the water out of his ears, he floated comfortably for a moment.  "How is your wrist?"

       "Much better, thank you," Merry replied inattentively.

       Frodo regarded his cousin's abstracted face for moment.  "And your bruises?"

       "Much better."****

"Uhm.  How's your butter fingers?"

       "Fine, thank you."  Then Merry's brows drew down and he focused on his cousin.  "My…  What are you talking about?"

       "Got your attention, did I?"  Merry looked exasperated but Frodo ignored his expression.  "Meriadoc," he said softly, below the energetic splashing on the other side of the great, wood-walled tub, "He's fine.  He wasn't hurt."

       Merry swung to face him and Frodo almost stepped back at the barely-contained fury on his face.  "This time.  _This_ time!  What about the next time?  What if he does get hurt?  What do I say to his father, his mother?   His sisters?  To all of Tookland if the heir of the Thain doesn't return?"

       The Ringbearer was silent for long moments.  Then he said, "Merry, haven't you thought that I've asked myself those questions?  About the heir to the Thain _and_ the heir to the Master of Buckland."  Merry looked at him, surprised.  Frodo nodded.  "Oh, yes.  And would you like to know how I answered myself?"

       At his cousin's wordless nod, Frodo continued, "I asked myself if they would not be safer if they returned to the Shire.  I asked myself if they _would_ go home, if I asked them to.  I asked myself … how long they would have, they _all_ would have, if this Quest doesn't succeed.  I asked myself if there were anyone else I would rather have go with me.  The answers, Cousin, were 'yes, for a while.' Then 'probably not.' And then 'most likely not long, if the darkness falls.' And lastly, 'no one else.'"

      Merry stared at the Ringbearer cautiously.  "We may not be of much use to you, Frodo."

      Frodo shook his head, scattering droplets of water from the limp curls.  "You and Pip and Sam being there, Merry, is enough.  Enough reason to do this.  Enough reason to endure this.  Enough reason to keep me from running screaming from this place and hiding in some dark hole."  Merry smiled and Frodo echoed it faintly.   "C'mon," the Ringbearer said softly.  "If you can convince Pip that Sam doesn't want to learn to swim, we might have time for a bite to sustain us until the feast."

* * * * * 

       The hobbits had barely finished dressing and consuming a little 'something strengthening' when a light knock sounded on Frodo's door.  Shrugging into his jacket, Sam went to answer it.  He returned a moment later with the Master of Rivendell at his side.  "Good eve, little masters," Elrond said with bow.  The hobbits bowed in return.

      "I hope I am not interrupting you," the Elf-lord remarked, "but I thought you might wish to accompany me to a small ceremony before the feast.  It will not take long."

       "Of course, my lord," replied Frodo, puzzled.  "We are at your disposal."

       Elrond led them out into the cooling night air, the aromas of roasting meats and baking and other delicious scents drifting on the breeze.  The hobbits raised their faces and sniffed appreciatively.  Smiling to himself, the lord led them to the stables, to their amazement, then to the corral that stood outside them.  In the corral waited Inmara, her pale coat shining and flowers woven into her mane and tail.  The stable master stood holding her harness, otherwise she was unencumbered.

       The old mare whickered upon seeing her two small riders, and Merry and Pippin rushed up to her, stroking her nose and patting as far up her graceful neck as they could reach.  Inmara responded by butting them gently with her great head, whiffing their hair with her sweet breath.

       "We have come," said the Elf-lord, after greetings had been exchanged, " to bide Inmara farewell."  The hobbits looked at him.  "She has demonstrated her bravery in bearing you and returning you safely to us, Meriadoc and young Peregrin.  She saved your lives more than once, Estel has told me."  He reached out and ran a long hand along the elderly horse's spine.  "It is time for her to be retired, to spend the rest of her days running free in the meadows of Imladris."

       At a nod from his lord, the stable master gently pulled the harness from the old mare's head.  He paused for a moment to cup her muzzle; no doubt he had bred her and trained her, her and her sire and her dam and their sires and dams, for untold generations.  

       The mare bowed her head before Elrond, and he returned the gesture with an elegant nod.  "Go," he told her.  "You have served long and well.  You have my thanks."

       She turned and trotted slowly from the corral, pausing once to look over her shoulder at them.  Then with a sudden, joyous whinny the old mare kicked up her heels and broke into a gallop, heading for the green grasslands where her kin waited.

        Elrond put a hand on Pippin's shoulder, then on Merry's.  "Come," he told them all gently.  "It is time to attend the feast."

* TBC *         


	7. Feasts and Fears

(Author's Note:  Azaelia and Coriandra, thank you!  LilyBaggins, a little uprising only - their elder cousin kept glaring at them.  Hsmgirl, to answer your question, "Recovery In Rivendell" just got too big for me to handle easily.  I needed a mental division and to place one at the halfway-point of their stay in Rivendell was logical.   Arabella thorne, I couldn't resist a scene of utter sentimental smuck.  Shireling, thank you for your comments on this story and the prequel – so glad you like it!  Elwen, that moment of thoughtful reflection reflects yours and Shirebound's work.  Baylor, what a hysterical comment … Elrond's "real reason" for leaving Middle-earth!  Leah Beth and Firnsarnien and Kay, I really _don't_ enjoy torturing our poor hobbits, and Pip least of all.  Helga, _what?_  I'm glad _that_ was cleared up!  QTPie-2488, I am so glad you didn't have a heart attack.  Got your blood moving, did it?  Pansy Chubb, I thought so too.  But then Pip thinks Merry "hung the moon."  Endymion, I can think of all sorts of horrible scenarios for a feast … but I'll refrain.  Lindelea – reviewing backwards?  I can't imagine how you can do that.  But I'm glad you like the story.  Shirebound, that comment from "the master of insights" is rewarding.  I read your conversation between Gandalf and Aragorn in "In the Keeping of the King" again and again.  Nilmandra, that reminded me of Merry's comment about all the "peace and serenity" of Rivendell being boring.  Not with hobbits about!  Kit, you fell for it?  Good!  Thank you, all, for your support and reviews and encouragement.)

Chapter 7:  Feasts and Fears

        This time it was Merry and Pippin who were led to the Master of Rivendell's High Table and seated in honor on each side of its lord.  The High Table was so strewn with flowers and crystal and Elrond's finest porcelain that there was scarcely room for the food.  The Ringbearer was excused to sit at a lower table, which pleased both Frodo and Samwise mightily.  "Good!" whispered Frodo into Sam's ear.  "Now I can spill all over myself and drop food everywhere and no one will see."

       Sam grinned back.  "Aye, sir.  You do so much o' that.  Don't they look fine, though?"

       The young hobbits did indeed look fine, if somewhat uncomfortable.  Elrond had gifted each with a fine suit of new clothes for the occasion, allowing the retirement of Merry's now very disreputable waistcoat.  The new one, an identical yellow, gleamed with fine stitching.  The two were tugging surreptitiously at the new clothes - they fit perfectly but were stiff with newness.  

       The twins, Elladan on the right and Elrohir on the left, sat next to the hobbits, with others of Elrond's folk about them.  Surprisingly, Gimli the Dwarf also had a place of honor at the High Table and looked as uncomfortable as the hobbits.  Arwen had been seated directly to his left, and devoted much of her time to alleviating his discomfort, the rough voice and the sweet one murmuring together, and at intervals both were raised in gentle laughter.

       The young hobbits had been relieved to find that their chairs were padded with many cushions and if they teetered uncertainly on the pile, at least they were raised enough above to table to see.  The twins steadied them and the two sat more comfortably.  Merry was grinning unabashedly at all and sundry and Pippin also, though he looked rather frightened. 

       Frodo and Sam were joined by Gandalf, with Legolas and Boromir in tow.  The wizard smiled at them, his usual rough-woven robes exchanged for soft dove-gray linens.  Frodo thought he looked very fine, though the mischievous glint in those deep eyes was the same as ever.  To Frodo's delight, rather than joining Arwen and his kin, Aragorn sat with them also.  The Ringbearer's eyes wandered among the Fellowship, considering each face, studying the features of those chosen to accompany him.  Strength and nobility he saw in those faces, Aragorn's especially.  Legolas' face was fair beyond that of mortal men, but humor and a joy in life softened it and made it congenial.  Boromir's eyes held strain but he had a wide, generous mouth and he smiled often.  Next to Frodo, Sam's sandy head was turning constantly, enthralled by the fair assemblage.  Gandalf … what could Frodo say of his old and much-loved friend?  Meeting Frodo's eyes suddenly, the Ringbearer found himself being considered in return.  The old wizard arched a bushy eyebrow, smiling at the hobbit's abased expression.

         Scarcely had greetings been exchanged when the Elf-lord rose and placed a long hand on the shoulders of his small guests.  Merry and Pippin stopped bouncing on their cushions and sat up straight.  Elrond's deep gaze wandered over his Household and his guests, and the soft-voiced conversations ceased as every head turned towards him. 

       Many and praising were the words he spoke to describe the young halflings' bravery and quick-thinking actions, that had saved the lives of his sons.  Merry and Pippin blushed, then flushed, then continued to turn the most astonishing shades of red.  Merry's bright curls made his face look even more scarlet and Pippin, daring to glance at his cousin, could not restrain a giggle.  That started it.   "Shush!" hissed Merry behind Elrond's back, choking back his own mirth.  Pippin tried but it escaped him, evolving into snickers and coughs and little rifts of uncontrollable laughter.   

      "…most noble act of bravery…" the Elf-lord was stating in his clear, sonorous voice, glancing down at the two giggling halflings, his dark brows drawing together in puzzlement, "…who by their courageous actions…" _(giggle, giggle, choke)_ "… most unselfishly …" _(giggle _– hic! –_ giggle)_ "… did most valiantly preserve the lives of the princes of Imladris…" _(ha, ha, ha – quiet, Pippin!) "…vanquishing an enemy…" __(and its horse!)  "…we in gratitude and honor…"   Elladan and Elrohir were laughing softly now, their dark eyes sparkling as they enjoyed their lord father's growing bewilderment, and stifled chuckles were breaking out among the lower tables.  Frodo stared at his younger cousins furiously, his face flushing, which only added to the honorees' hilarity._

         Elrond rallied magnificently.  Unaccustomed to such frivolity at a High Feast, he was wise enough to recognize that a mighty Elf-lord held little chance against the merriment of hobbits.  Elrohir and Elladan were smiling in delight, each keeping a hand on hobbit-shoulder to help them balance against the cushions.  Gimli looked confused but amusement danced in his deep-set eyes.  Arwen awarded her father a commiserating look but no help, her eyes bright with humor at his consternation.  With a resigned sigh, the Lord of Imladris concluded his remarks and signaled for the serving to begin.

         Elladan leaned over a repentant Merry and whispered to his father, "It is for the best, Father.  You do tend to pontificate, you know."

         Before the Elf-lord could draw breath to respond, Elrohir supported his brother with, "And I, for one, am pleased to hear laughter in the Great Hall.  It has been much missing of late."

       Elrond felt a tug on his mantle and looked down into Pippin's anxious eyes.  "I'm sorry, sir," the young hobbit apologized contritely.  "But Merry looked so odd.  Odder than usual, I mean…" the young hobbit darted a teasing glance at his cousin, who had just taken a mouthful and was unable to defend himself, "and, well, all we did really was to use our heads a bit.  All those things you were saying … we're honored, sir, but we're just hobbits."

      The immortal Lord of Imladris regarded the small beings.  "I very much doubt that you and Master Meriadoc are 'just' hobbits, young Peregrin.   I suspect that you two will have a much larger role to play in the upcoming effort than you believe."

       Merry swallowed hurriedly.  "What do you mean, my lord?"

       "Great feats come to those who are willing to do them, young hobbits.  Middle-earth cries out for heroes with sharp minds and brave hearts."

       "Heroes," repeated Merry and Pippin together, their small faces beaming.  

       "Did I not say so?" asked Elrond.  Then more gravely he turned to them, and looked deeply at them from those dark, wise eyes.  "Thank you for saving the lives of my children."

       The remainder of the feast was concluded in more dignity.  Dish after dish was presented first to the High Table then served to the lower tables; soups and salads, baskets of elaborate breads, dishes of vegetables cut into astonishing artwork, bowls of potatoes and yams whipped into imaginative shapes, peacocks and pheasants with their plumage restored, suckling pigs turned on spits with apples in their mouths.  Between each course a little lemon- or peach-flavored ice was offered to clear the palate.  Course after course followed one another, some so elaborate that the hobbits were unsure whether they were for admiring or consumption.  Pippin picked up a radish carved into a blooming rose; it was lovely but what to do with it?  He examined it thoughtfully then ate it.

       After a while, a minstrel came before the dais, strumming softly a lute.  She did not sing but played only, the soft notes of the music weaving among the diners with the warmth of a cat brushing along its person's ankles.  The Elves partook but lightly of each dish, but the hobbits, after their initial shyness, ate heartily.  This honest appreciation of his efforts pleased the head cook immeasurably.  Long familiar with wistful eyes and hungry expressions from when the little ones would beg for a snack, the tyrannical Elf had given much thought of what would best please the evening's honorees, and the bounty of this blatant favoritism spilled over to Frodo and Sam.

      At last the two guests of honor pushed back their plates with a groan.  The head cook signaled to his staff.  The plates were cleared away and before each of the diners was placed a pastry swan made of a cream-puff, frothy whipped cream filling the cavity.  The hobbits stared in amazement.  The top of the puff had been cut off and sliced in half and the two sides had been tilted up against the sides like wings.  Tiny dots of chocolate formed the eyes on a graceful neck of piped dough.

         "Ohhhh," the hobbits breathed.  The head cook beamed.  Elrond smiled, amused by both his kitchen staff and his guests.  Slowly, with reverence, the dessert was consumed.  "Ohhhh," Pippin repeated in bliss, eyeing his cousin's barely touched dessert.  "Ah, Merry, if you're not going to eat that…"

       "Hands off, Pip.  I was just figuring out how they made it so I can take the idea back to Brandy Hall.  Can you imagine _these_ served at the Yuleday feast?"

       The tweenager's sorrowful eyes remained glued to the delicacy.  "My head hurts, Merry," he whispered shamelessly.

       Merry rolled his eyes.  "And my swan would help that?"

       "Uh-um!"  Merry sighed and slid it over to him.  

       Elrond turned from his place in time to see the exchange.  "I fear, Master Meriadoc," he said softly, " that you will hear that particular lament from young Pippin for as long as you allow him to get away with it."

       Merry nodded, not at all discomforted.  "I know, sir.  But I don't mind, really.  My dessert is small price to pay for his being all right."

       The Elf-lord nodded in understanding.  "All things seem trivial when measured against the well-being of those we love."

* * * * *

        Dawn had not yet painted the mountains with light when Merrry tried to rouse his cousin for the day's activities.  Pippin yawned then tried to burrow deeper into the blankets.  "I can't get up for lessons today," he explained to Merry earnestly.  "My head hurts.  Truly, Merry."

       As they had done the previous afternoon, Merry's hands burrowed through the thick curls and did indeed discover a sizable lump, though one much diminished from the initial injury.  The tweenager endured this stoically, having explored the site earlier himself.  Pippin's green-gold eyes met his cousin's hopefully and he made a great show of rubbing the bump.  This heart-rending performance was rather spoiled by another yawn.

       "Pippin," argued Merry reasonably, "you must get up.  We have boating practice today and everyone's going to be there.  Then Gimli is going to test us on weapons he thinks we might use."

       "I know how to paddle a boat," retorted Pippin.  "You taught me.  What sort of weapons?"

       Merry considered his answer then chose to address the first rationalization.  "The scows and row-boats we use on the Brandywine aren't like elven boats, Pip.  Have you seen them?"  Merry's face took on an eager, abstracted expression and Pippin was intrigued in spite of the soft mattress and warm covers.  "They narrow at the bow and stern and the hulls are tapered to a point.  You can't sink one even if you want to.  You _can't_.   And they're beautiful, Pip.  Like poetry on water.  Slim and graceful … not like anything we have in the Shire."

     "You're always on about things and ideas we can take home," the youngest hobbit groused good-naturedly, his reluctance disappearing in his cousin's enthusiasm (and thoughts of breakfast).  "Let's see these wonder-boats, then."

       It wasn't until much, much later that Pippin remembered that Merry had said nothing about the Dwarf-weapons.

* * * * * 

       "I don't like this, Mr. Frodo," Sam muttered. 

        Frodo nodded jerkily.  "Me neither, Sam."

        The hobbits stood in an apprehensive cluster (minus one) on the banks of one of Rivendell's swift-flowing streams, eyeing the two elven river-craft Elrond had provided them for practice.  Bilbo had chosen to accompany them this morning, complaining cheerfully of the early hour and his old bones.    Aragorn watched the elderly hobbit cautiously, seeing how he and Frodo and Sam blanched at the noisy waters and stood well back of the bank.

       Aragorn had chosen one of the smaller streams, more gentle than many that dashed through Imladris with such exuberant vigor, but still he sensed the hobbits' unease.  Frodo, the Ranger remembered, had his own reason to fear boats and water.  Bilbo had told him the story of the Ringbearer's parents and their untimely death on the waters of the Brandywine.  The orphaned hobbit-child had been taking in by Merry's folk and at Brandy Hall had learned to face his fear and even boats, but the Ranger saw that Frodo was tense and nervous.  Samwise looked simply frightened, his round face white and sweating, high spots of color on his cheeks.  Pippin was excited and eager but he stayed close to Frodo, hanging back behind his cousin and keeping a hand in Frodo's.  Sparing a reassuring smile for the anxious hobbits, Aragorn turned his attention to the one among them who seemed comfortable.  

       The young Brandybuck had greeted the slender elven craft with a cry of joy, exclaiming over their graceful lines and running his hands over the painted prows.  Bilbo had also warned Aragorn that the other Shirefolk considered the Brandybucks "right odd" because of their most unhobbit-like enjoyment of water and boating.  Contrasting this young one's ardent face with the others, Aragorn seconded the Shirefolk.

       Prying Merry away from the river-craft, Aragorn sat the younger hobbits down and explained the principles of steering and paddling.  Then he had them scoot into a line on the grassy turf and practice with imaginary oars.  Gimli made the mistake of laughing at the comical sight and found himself seated after Samwise, stroking industriously with a non-existent paddle.  Thus forewarned, Legolas and Boromir were careful to keep their miens serious and helpful, and assisted the Ranger with positioning small hands and calling out a rhythm.  Gandalf watched for a while then laughed and excused himself, admonishing Aragorn not to let anyone drown.  The hobbits stared after him, not appreciating the joke.  

* TBC *


	8. Rivers and Hobbits are a Dangerous Mix

(Author's Note:  Arabella thorne and LilyBaggins, I used to make those pastry swans for dinner parties.  They always earned rave reviews.  Leah Beth, could you see those two sitting somberly through such an occasion - _impossible_.  Gentle Hobbit, thank you – writing 'hobbit-humor' is such a joy (regretfully, there isn't much of it in this chapter).  Endymion, I hope you are feeling better?  Yams are a tuber, similar to potatoes.  They are usually baked and can be whipped, often served with brown sugar and marshmallows – delicious.  Firiel, I love Bilbo and include him whenever possible.  I think he would be there to keep everyone in line.  Kit, what a perfect description of Merry's love for and care of his younger cousin.  Hmsgirl and Seraphim, I thought that last remark of Gandalf's very like him.  Kay, 'hobbit dignity' … that's an oxymoron if I ever heard one.  Bilbo is a dignified old hobbit, and Frodo can be.  But more than those two … nope.  Firnsarnien, 'yay - no cliffy,' huh?  You'll be sorry you said _that_.  Shirebound, if you figure out a way, let me know.  There are some stories I could love to claim as mine; "In the Keeping of the King," "Reunion at Cormallen," and several others.  Elwen, I think our hobbits flummox the Elf-lord; he simply doesn't know how to react to them.  QTPie-2488, every story needs such a leveling of humor, and the more intense a story the more humor is needed.   Thanks everyone … now, back to the action!)

Chapter 8:  Rivers and Hobbits are a Dangerous Mix

       "No thank you," repeated Samwise firmly.  "I'm fine right here, I am."  The stocky hobbit crossed his muscular arms across his chest and glared at the Ranger's boots, his round face florid with obstinacy.

       Were all hobbits so stubborn, Aragorn wondered, or had he just been blessed in the Ringbearer and his friends?  He turned to Boromir, who sat in the stern of the narrow elven river-craft, keeping the boat on shore with a paddle dug into the bank.  Frodo and Merry shared a seat before him, Merry on the left and somewhat hampered by his still-healing wrist.  Pippin sat before them, his arms stretched wide to hold both sides of the small craft as it bucked and heaved in the swift waters.  The soldier shrugged his thick shoulders helplessly but amusement at the Ranger's predicament lurked in his hazel eyes.  Legolas and Gimli stood by the second boat, waiting for the resolution of this unexpected revolt.

      "Sam," cajoled Frodo, "you don't want to be the only one who doesn't know how to manage a river-craft, do you?  Come on now, be a good lad."

      "Mr. Frodo," Sam replied, "me Gaffer always said that water an' Gamgees don't mix."  His round face paled as the small craft rocked and Boromir had to thrust the oar deep into the turf to keep the boat from working free.  Pippin squeaked, his hands on the sides going white.  Sam shook his head resolutely but his words were pleading.  "Please, sir, don't make me."

      "Sam, you must."  Frodo stared at his friend helplessly.  "Truly, it isn't so bad.  Rather like sitting an unruly pony.  Isn't it, Pippin?"  This was perhaps not the wisest query to make, as Pippin was beginning to look a bit green and they hadn't yet pushed off from the shore.  The gentle streams of the Shire were nothing like the swift and noisy waters of Rivendell.  The small boat bounced and dipped, and Pippin and Frodo both gulped.  

        "Meanin' no disrespect, Mr. Frodo," said Sam slowly, not missing their white-knuckled grips on the boat, "I'd just as soon not.  The ground's never let me down before, and I hope 'ta keep it that way."

       "Samwise Gamgee!  You get in that boat this instant, young hobbit!"

       Several things happened at once.  Frodo and the other young hobbits snapped to attention.  Sam levitated into the air and was climbing into the rocking craft before he was quite aware of moving.  Once seated beside Pippin, he glowered resentfully at Bilbo.  The elderly hobbit smiled at him serenely, brown old eyes sparkling with mirth.  "I've known the lad since he was a gleam in his father's eye," Bilbo said in an aside to Aragorn.   "Always did need a push now and then."

       "Thank you, Bilbo," Aragorn muttered, storing away that tone of voice for future use.  Legolas boarded the second craft gracefully and held it still for the Dwarf.  Once everyone was seated, Aragorn motioned for them to begin.  Boromir and Legolas pushed off and sought the shallows, away from the swift flow at the center of the icy river.  

       "Shouldn't you be going with them, Dúnadan?" asked Bilbo, from where he had settled himself comfortably on a grassy hillock, a somewhat worn wool blanket spread over his legs.  

       Aragorn stood on the bank and addressed the old hobbit over his shoulder.  "I think it best if one swimmer stays ready, Bilbo.  Just in case."

       Bilbo nodded.  "Ah … good decision, my friend.  Just in case."

       But it seemed the Ranger's caution was unnecessary.  Boromir and Legolas guided their river-craft easily and well, keeping close to shore and taking advantage of the swirling currents to back paddle and stay near the watchers on the bank.  After they felt themselves comfortable with the boats, both pulled into an eddy and waited for the craft to settle.  The Man and the Elf shipped their paddles and turned control of the small craft over to the hobbits and the Dwarf.

       Despite the paddles Elrond had had shortened for them, the hobbits had difficulty.  They could not reach over the high sides (to them) of the craft to dip the oars far enough into the water to get an effective stroke.  Frodo and Merry worked out a rhythm quickly enough, both handling an oar, but Sam and Pippin had more trouble.  The difference in their sizes only exaggerated their problem with the oars; when Sam did get in an effective stroke, he tipped the river-craft to the side and Pippin was flailing air.  

       Gimli did better under Legolas' coaching, growling under his breath at the swift waters and occasionally at the amused Elf.  His immense strength drove the small craft forward in leaps and bounds but he had difficulty swiveling from side to side to steer the craft.  Aragorn's attention was on Legolas and Gimli when Boromir's voice roared out behind him.

      _"Aragorn!"_

      The Ranger swung back to a scene of confusion.  Boromir and the hobbits were in the water.  The river-craft was upside down, and two wet hobbit-heads were surfacing to cling to the overturned bow.  The water darkened their hair and made it difficult to identify which of the little folk they were.  Where were the other two?

       Aragorn kicked off his boots and was in the freezing water in a heartbeat.  It was so cold that it drove the breath from him and chilled him instantly.  Boromir had disappeared; he broke the surface moment later, flinging water from his hair, a third small body thrashing in his arms.  Legolas had snatched the paddle back from Gimli and was stroking towards them, but they had drifted some way off and the Elf was working against the current.  Now Bilbo was on his feet, shouting and pointing.

       Aragorn paused, following the old hobbit's finger.  A sandy head bobbed briefly in the current then went down again.  _Samwise_.  'Oh, no,' thought the Ranger as he threw himself full length into the water and pushed himself off.  'He'll never enter a river again.'  Boromir had pushed Merry and Pippin against the frame and wrapped one arm around Frodo's chest, holding them both to the overturned boat.  He was struggling with Frodo - the Ringbearer was fighting him, trying to get free to go after his friend.  Merry and Pippin had latched onto Boromir's clothing to drag them back to the craft, but they were drifting into the swift current and it caught the man, finding purchase against his larger body.  As Aragorn watched, Merry's weakened hand betrayed him and he lost his grip.  Pippin could not hold Boromir and Frodo by himself.  The two went down again, and when they came up, they were already far from the overturned craft.

       The Ranger swam quickly, strong arms and legs kicking, sped by the current.  His mind flashed back to their scouting-trip not so long ago, when Merry's ill-fated fishing attempt had resulted in him falling into the river and Aragorn leaping in after him.  But there were no twins to help this time.  He pushed all considerations from his mind other than reaching the bobbing forms.

       Level with the water, he could not see any of them.  Nor could he make out the others' shouts over the roaring of the water in his ears.  The Dwarf's powerful voice bellowed over the river-song, but the words were indecipherable.  Surprisingly, it was young Pippin's shrill shrieks that penetrated the water's buffering roars and made themselves audible to Aragorn.  "Left!  Left!" the young one was screeching, his high voice drilling into the Ranger's eardrums.  Aragorn threw himself to the side, half-turning in the swift waters.  There was something dark in the water … small hands batting the foaming surface weakly.  Aragorn surged past it then turned, catching the struggling form and pulling it on its back with his arm around its chest.  _Sam._  The hobbit relaxed, instinct or weariness warning him not to continue fighting.  Aragorn pulled him closer and started stroking for shore with one arm, towing the semi-conscious gardener.  

       Bilbo met them on the bank, panting alarmingly, his lined face bloodless.  Aragorn heaved up the hobbit onto the shore and immediately flipped Sam onto his stomach, pushing hard below his ribcage to expel the water he had taken in.  Sam choked, his eyelids fluttering, fingers digging into the spongy grass.  Bilbo collapsed by his head, tugging his wool blanket over the young hobbit, stroking the limp curls and murmuring to him, "Breathe, Samwise.  Breathe, my boy.  You're all right now, my lad."

      Aragorn thought that Bilbo should take his own advice.  Sparing a moment to raise his head, he saw that they had not traveled far down the bank but were past where Merry and Pippin still clutched the overturned river-craft.  It looked like they were trying to tow it to the other, closer shore, but could make little progress against the current.  Boromir and Frodo were nowhere in sight.  Legolas and Gimli were farther down, past where he had found Sam, the Elf impossibly standing in the boat, feet balanced on the sides, hand raised to his eyes to scan the waters.  Gimli was dragging the paddle in the water, trying to slow them and afford Legolas some stability.  Aragorn watched as the blond head turned from side to side, searching desperately.  

       Bilbo called his attention back to Sam.  "Aragorn, he's stopped breathing!  He's not breathing!"

       Aragorn rolled Sam onto his back, crouched over the now unconscious hobbit and placed his ear over Sam's mouth, listening for the rush of air past the hobbit's lips.  No air brushed his cheek and Sam's chest did not move.  Quickly the Ranger inserted a finger into Sam's mouth and ensured that the hobbit's airway was clear.  Then he placed his hand under Sam's head and gently extended his neck, opening his mouth by tilting back his chin.  One hand rose to pinch shut Sam's nostrils, the man's thumb and forefinger covering nearly half the small face.  Aragorn inhaled deeply and fitted his mouth over the hobbit's, making a tight seal, blowing slowly into his mouth.  For a child – or person of small statue – the Ranger's mind supplied, each breath should last a second to a second and a half.  Five seconds between breaths … twelve breaths a minute.  Bilbo placed his hands on Sam's chest, feeling it expand with the forced inhalation.  Aragorn blew in a second breath then released Sam, shifting back to see the hobbit's chest slowly sink.  

       "Come on, Sam," Aragorn growled.  He placed two fingers just to the side of Samwise's throat-apple, seeking the carotid artery.  It pulsed sluggishly beneath his touch.  He knelt over the hobbit again and forced in a third breath, then a fourth.  Again the small chest slowly sank.  He was about to deliver another pair of breaths when Sam's face crinkled.  He choked and quickly Aragorn rolled the hobbit onto his side.  

       Sam moaned once then he was vomiting, legs drawing up as cramps ripped through his stomach and forced the icy river-water from him.  His eyes opened but they were glazed and unfocused.  Bilbo knelt over him, stroking his head and murmuring constant, meaningless reassurances.  The old hobbit raised his eyes to the Ranger's.  "He's breathing on his own, now.  Aragorn – please.  Find Frodo."

       With a last check on Sam, Aragorn nodded and rose.  His wet clothing was plastered to him, sending shudders through him, making it impossible for his body to generate heat.  He had to get Merry and Pippin out of the water as quickly as possible.  "Bilbo, will you start a fire?  There is plenty of wood about – part of the blanket can serve as fuel.  Your kin and Sam will need the warmth as soon as possible."

       Without waiting for an answer, Aragorn ran to the bank.  "Legolas!  Legolas!  Bring the halflings to shore!"  He need not have feared the Elf would not hear him.  Legolas turned towards him then sank down back into the boat.  He steered while Gimli paddled, the Dwarf using that immeasurable strength to push against the current and draw near to the hobbits.   Legolas' long arm reached out and he caught first Pippin, then Merry by their collars, hauling the waterlogged hobbits over the side of the craft to sit them before he and Gimli.  The two were shivering too much to speak and could only stare at their rescuers with tearing eyes in white faces.  Unheeded, the second elven-craft whirled in the water then shot off down the river.

       Again the Dwarf's great strength made light of the obstructing current.  Gimli grounded the boat with a push that drove them up on the bank and Aragorn caught the bow, anchoring it so that it could not slip back into the river.  Gimli dragged himself gracelessly out of the craft, lifting Merry up to Aragorn as Legolas picked up a dripping Pippin. 

       "Fro – Fro – Fro -" tried Merry, unable to get his cousin's name out past chattering teeth.

       "We will go after him in a moment, Merry," Aragorn reassured him.  "Boromir will keep him safe.  Now you and Pippin and Sam must get warm.  Bilbo, how's that fire?"

       "Coming along," replied the old hobbit distractedly.  Gimli and Legolas were helping, dragging over branches and feeding in tinder, and the flames were growing to bonfire proportions.  Bilbo was directing the young hobbits to remove their clothing, and helping the now awake but miserable Sam to undress.  "Close by the fire, my lads.  That's it.  Pippin, dry your hair with my blanket.   You too, Merry – take the other end.  Aragorn, you should get out of those wet things."

      The Ranger shook his head, struggling to don his boots.  "Legolas and I are going downriver.  I'll warm up soon enough with a brisk run.  Gimli, will you keep the fire fed and do what you can to help them?"  The Dwarf nodded, dark eyes worried.  

       Legolas sprang away and Aragorn after him.  They had passed beyond the hearing-range of those left behind when the Ranger sought his friend's attention.  "Keep your eyes on the shoreline.  They might have found a quiet shoal and been able to pull themselves ashore.  I hope it is so."  Legolas looked at him without speaking, then immediately returned that keen gaze to searching the river.  "There are rapids farther down," Aragorn explained.  "They lead to a great waterfall.  If they survive the rocks, they would never survive the fall."

* TBC *


	9. Desperate Straits

(Author's Note:   Kit, I am honored that you took the effort to express your review in verse!  Clever Kit!  LilyBaggins, were I our beloved Ranger, I probably would have lost my mind by now and killed them myself.  Elwen, surely our 'studly' Aragorn is too macho to catch cold?  Unlike our non-macho but darling hobbits.  Shirebound and Shireling, your comments influenced the conversation between Elrond, Gandalf and Aragorn.  Firnsarnien, will some Leggy action substitute for Leggy-angst?  Ariel, _another_ excellent alternative title I wish I'd thought of.  A Elbereth, Distortion, Leah Beth and hmsgirl, out of respect for your respective nerves, here is a cliffhanger-less chapter.  Baylor, again you give me pause for thought.  If I could incorporate all the sub-plots, this story would be a thousand chapters long.   Gentle Hobbit, that's a very good action-sequence.  I think all those beautiful thick curls would keep the chain from slipping off, but what if the Ring tried to abandon Frodo?  QTPie-2488, that's how I feel in writing such a scene.  I'm exhausted at the end of it.  Endymion, you are right, of course.  Can't kill off or _too_ seriously injure our heroes.   Kay, I agree - and Sam was right too, wasn't he?   Arabella thorne, you have put your finger on so much of the angst.  Friends, I can't thank you enough for sticking with this story and not growing bored with it.)

Chapter 9:  Desperate Straits

        _"Achoo!" _Pippin leaned wretchedly against Merry's shivering back and fought down another sneeze.  "Excuse me," he quavered after a moment.  Wrapped up in Bilbo's scratchy wool blanket, he still pressed close to the fire and felt Merry do the same.  Merry was covered in Gimli's cloak from the hair on his head to the hair on his toes, the hood pulled up for additional warmth.  Sam was lost inside of the Dwarf's surcoat, not even his hands visible.  They still felt as if they were freezing, huddling together for what heat their chilled bodies could muster.  

       "Are you warm enough, young Peregrin?" asked Gimli, the small amount of expression the hobbits could see between the russet hair and bushy beard looking concerned.  "Shall I build up the fire further?"

       Pippin nodded hopefully.  But his eldest cousin broke in before the tweenager could speak.  "If you do," said Bilbo, "Elrond will think that you have set his woods ablaze."  Black smoke was already billowing from the bonfire that the Dwarf had made, climbing high into the cold morning sunlight.  The shifting wind seemed intent on finishing off what the icy waters had started; each time the three damp, shivering and thoroughly miserable hobbits moved to avoid the wind-blown smoke, it changed direction and sought them out. 

       "Do you think they're all right?" murmured Sam.  The stocky hobbit took an inopportune breath and exploded in a frenzy of coughs, tears streaming from his eyes as he struggled to clear the smoke from his lungs

       "Smoke follows beauty," commented Bilbo.  Alone among the small company, he was on his feet, watching for four to return where two had left.  "It's an old saying.  But then, I'm an old hobbit. "  Pippin managed a wan smile.  Bilbo reached out and tousled the youngster's limp curls gently.  "Buck up, lads.  Aragorn and Legolas will bring him back.  They'll return any time now."

       Gimli looked at Sam worriedly as he coughed again and pressed his water-skin upon the young hobbit.  "Master Samwise, drink a little water," he urged.

       Sam shook his head.  "No thank you, sir.  I've drunk enough o' that to last me forever.  I'm thinking of switching to beer for the rest of my life."

       "What about washing, Sam?" Pippin could not resist asking.

       "Beer will work for that too, Master Pip," replied Samwise firmly.

       "Sounds good to me," muttered Merry with a cough.  Then he raised his head, staring into the woods.  "What's that?" 

       Instantly Gimli was standing before them, his small throwing-axes in his hands.  Aragorn had forced him to leave his great battle-axe behind but the Dwarf would not forgo his small axes, not even during boating lessons.

      He returned them to his belt as two great gray shapes broke through the trees.  Elladan and Elrohir reined their blowing stallions to a stop before the wrenched-looked party, astonishment on their fair faces.  "We came as soon as we saw the signal fire," called Elladan.

       "What occurs?" asked Elrohir, searching Merry's face, while his brother looked keenly into Pippin's tearing eyes.  Merry held up his arms and Elrohir leaned to the side, sweeping the hobbit up into his arms without dismounting.  Elladan caught up the blanket-wrapped Pippin and seated the hobbit before him.

       "We will tell you as we ride," said Merry and pointed a shaking finger downriver.

* * * * *

       Legolas was pulling ahead of the Ranger and with a wave of his hand, Aragorn motioned the Elf on.  The Man sank to his knees, hands on his thighs, wet clothes sticking to his sweating body.  Aragorn closed his eyes and coughed, fighting to draw breath.  They had seen no sign along the banks and the roaring of the great falls was becoming more distinct.  Crushing down his fear with an iron fist, Aragorn tried to recall the configuration of the rapids.  The greater rocks were first, sides worn smooth by the rushing waters.  After them were scattered smaller boulders, many jagged and splintered.  Water white with speed sprayed over them.  Catching and holding on to one of the serrated, slippery boulders would be almost impossible.

      "Aragorn!  Come quickly!  I have found them!"  Aragorn was on his feet and running again before his mind had deciphered the meaning of the Elf's shouted words.  Bursting through the trees, he emerged onto a sandy bank and pulled to a stop in horror.  Legolas was standing in the shallows, his breeches wet to the knees where he had waded out before keeping his feet became impossible.  The Elf had halted perhaps twelve feet from the first of the boulders, the larger but more gentle rocks that presaged the rapids.  Something long and slender glinted in the water, hung on its ends between two great boulders.  Not a tree trunk, Aragorn saw… it was the elven river-craft.  Wedged sideways in the water, it was providing an lifeline for the two sodden forms that clung weakly to its sides. 

       Part of the river-craft's sides had been torn away but the frame remained intact.  Frodo had clamped his hands on the upturned side of a bench, the force of the water pushing him full-length in the water.  His cloak streamed out behind him as if he were flying.  His dark head was down, between his arms, trying with all his strength to hold on.  He did not see them.

       Boromir, too, had managed to catch hold of the streamlined craft as it has passed them and caught on the rocks.  The pushing flow was too great to allow it to slide sideways and off the rocks, but the implacable force of the water was breaking the craft's spine.

      Aragorn started to forge past the Elf but Legolas caught his clothing and dragged him back.  "Will you be swept away also?"  Aragorn shook off the Elf's hands, impotent fury in his face.  But Legolas was right.  He could no more stand against the raging waters than a grain of sand could hold back the tide.    

       As Aragorn and Legolas could but watch, the wooden back of the small boat bowed and more of the frame cracked and snapped.  Frodo's head came up as he was jerked back in the water and he saw them.  He cried out but they could not hear him.  Boromir's head turned towards the hobbit, and the two on the bank saw the soldier's eyes fasten on them.  They saw despair on Boromir's face, even as he struggled to drag himself hand-over-hand closer to the Ringbearer.

      With a snap that was heard over the rushing waters, the elven craft's spine shattered.  Frodo had a moment to scream before the frothing waters closed over his head.  The broken end of the slender boat was caught up in the current and up-ended completely before being dragged under, visible only as a dark shape before it exploded into splinters on the rocks.  Boromir's end was thrust upwards and came down with the bow impaled on a sharp boulder like a cap on a mushroom.  The Man disappeared then came up clawing for the splintering frame, something dark clamped between his legs. 

       It was Frodo.  The hobbit was moving feebly, small hands flailing aimlessly at the water.  The soldier's legs held him tightly at the waist, the current stretching them both out.  If they were torn free like that, Aragorn thought, the rocks would smash their spines just as it had the river-craft.

       Legolas had his bow from his back, stringing it in a heartbeat.  Then he was unwinding the thin, tensile fiber that was wound around the base of his quiver.  It was a type of twine, the Ranger saw, thin and strong.  The Elf pulled out an arrow and tied the thin line just below the nock, winding the line between the fletching.  Aragorn's eyes turned to the broken skeleton of the remaining half of the river-craft's frame caught over the rock - the slender wooden ribs offered little surface to hold an arrow.  And the frame was bucking in the current, splintering as they watched.  Legolas backed out of the water and stood on firm ground, bracing his legs wide.

     The arrow and its trailing line sang as pure as elven-song over the white waters, imbedding itself deep in the narrow rib that had formed the bow-point.  Boromir understood immediately, reaching out with one hand to wrap the line around his wrist.  Legolas cast aside his bow and closed his hands around the line.  Aragorn seconded him, wrapping the end of the line around his forearms.  Boromir took a deep breath and called out something to Frodo.  They could not see if the hobbit responded.  With the line securely tied about him, Boromir struggled to pull out the arrow.  Unable to, he snapped it.  Boromir released the wooden skeleton and the two were wrenched back by the current.

       Aragorn and Legolas dropped to their haunches and dug in their boots, pulling with all of their strength.  Boromir could not help them; it was all he could do to keep his hold on the line and turn his body to keep the hobbit's face above water.  

      Though it was but a half-score of feet to the calm waters at the banks, the river never ceased its tug-of-war with the two mortal lives as prize.   Fire ripped through Aragorn's shoulders and the muscles of his arms spasmed in protest.  Legolas pulled grimly, his expression set, the pain he bore only a clouding of his sunlit eyes.  With one mighty effort, the two hauled Boromir and Frodo ashore like two gasping fish on a line.  Dragged free of the greedy waters, Boromir managed to catch up the choking hobbit and pull himself two steps out of the water before falling unconscious at their rescuers' feet. 

* * * * * 

       Elrond pulled the door closed and leaned his forehead against it, indulging himself in a moment of simple aggravation well mixed with relief.  After examining each of the red-nosed, coughing, sneezing halflings, he had ordered Merry's and Pippin's beds moved into Frodo's rooms and decreed that all four of the hobbits share quarters until they were recovered.  They were reassured by one another's presences, and it would be easier for him to attend them so.

      "How are they?" asked Gandalf, who had been waiting with Aragorn for the diagnosis.

      The Master of Rivendell sighed. "They are all developing fine colds.  They will have headaches, stuffy noses, sore throats, coughs and general aches and pains for several days at least."

       "It could have been much worse," said Aragorn softly.

       "Indeed," agreed Elrond.  He joined Gandalf in taking a chair and rubbed his high brow tiredly.  "That Elladan and Elrohir brought them in so quickly has greatly reduced their chances of pneumonia.  Frodo bears the brunt of it, bruises and scrapes resulting from the most time spent in the river.  He swallowed a great deal of icy water and was thoroughly chilled.  We will have to watch both he and Boromir carefully for signs of fever."  Elrond frowned, cataloging in his mind remedies and tonics that might be of use.  "I am thinking of confining the hobbits to the Ringbearer's room for the remainder of their stay here.  That way, perhaps, they will stay out of trouble."

       "Only if you remove all furnishings, decorative items, linens, carpets and drapes and possibly the floor, ceiling and walls," drawled Gandalf.

       "I have known only Bilbo, who is a noteworthy enough person," Elrond continued, ignoring the wizard.  "Are all halflings so … so…"

       "Consistently unfortunate?" suggested Gandalf. 

        "Accident-prone?" supplied Aragorn.

      "I was about to say, 'Adventurous'," the Elf-lord finished, with a quelling glance at the other two.

      Gandalf leaned back in his chair and laughed.  "I have been friends with hobbits for many years," he said, his sharp eyes slightly distant.  "They are, without exception, completely unique individuals.  Their small size in no way reflects the size of their hearts, or courage, or souls."

      "Be that as it may," replied Elrond, "these four will have no more lessons for two days, at least.  Then nothing strenuous for another day.  Estel, what might you or the others teach them that does not require physical exertion, and in which they cannot possibly harm themselves?"

      "Setting snares, I suppose," the Ranger replied at length.  "Pippin is now expert and Sam as well, but Frodo and Merry could use some practice.  They are less used to providing for themselves in the Wild."

      Gandalf nodded. "They would be.  As members of the elite of hobbit society, Frodo and Meriadoc are more accustomed to packing their staples on a walking-party, or having a servant prepare their dinners for them."

      "But they could do themselves no damage?" pressed Elrond.

      "Maybe a cut or squeezed finger, nothing more," assured Aragorn.

      Elrond nodded.  "Very well."

      Aragorn bowed to his foster father and the wizard.  "If you will excuse me, I will prepare the wires and see what else may be taught our invalids."  So he departed, still smiling slightly.

       When he had gone, Gandalf turned to the Elf-lord, the sparkle in his eyes fading.  "You realize, of course, that these 'accidents' to the Ringbearer may not be accidents at all?"

      Elrond was silent for a long moment.  Then he rose and drifted to the open balcony, looking out past the beauty of Imladris to the East.  Grey clouds marred the horizon there; it looked to be cold and raining.  "You think they have been caused by the … by what he bears?"

      Gandalf joined his old friend, looking out into the darkness in the East.  "I think that the Enemy is able – increasingly able – to exert an influence over his … property.  What we have been calling mischance may be a deliberate effort to dispense with a Bearer who has proved to be remarkably resistant to his evil, so that the … his property … might fall into the possession of one who will heed its whispers and lies, and deliver it to its maker."

       "Does Frodo know this?" demanded Elrond softly.

       Gandalf frowned and shook his head.  "I do not believe so.  Hobbits live very much in the 'now.'  Though Frodo is an introspective hobbit and quite intelligent.  He might have realized it on some level but he denies himself the knowledge."

      "And when he must face that knowledge?"

      Gandalf sighed and leaned against his staff, his gnarled hands sliding over the timeworn wood as if for comfort.  "We will be there for him."  His glance strayed back to the closed door, from behind which a particularly loud sneeze had just been heard.  "We will all be there for him."

* TBC *


	10. Head Colds and Heartaches

(Author's Note:  Aratlithiel, it is so satisfying to have someone say they've been a lurker but am now getting involved in ff.net in part due to my stories.  Thank you.  Coriandra, I think the hobbits would have enjoyed a buffet more than a High Feast too, but appearances must be maintained…    Leah Beth, thank _you_ for all the enthusiasm!    Shireling, yes, it is.  The hobbits and I need a day or two to recover.  Kit, how do you _do_ that?  I couldn't rhythm like that to save my life.  Camellia Gamgee-Took, I'm glad you enjoyed it.  QTPie-2488, you couldn't have said anything I value more than the story "haunted you."  Arabella thorne, thank you.  My dream is to publish someday and be a 'real' writer.  Endymion and TTTurtle, so sorry to hear about your computer problems.  I don't think anything else can ruin our day as quickly as that.  Daw the minstrel, is there anything more adorable than a 'hobbit pile?'  I can't think of it, if there is.  Firnsarnien, giving Legolas the opportunity to use those talents of his is a delight.  Shirebound and Kay, thanks for the reassurance.  A Elbereth, I don't know if this helps, but when I plot an action sequence I pretend I'm standing and watching it, and the description arises from that.  My heartfelt thanks to you all.)  

Chapter 10:  Head Colds and Heartaches

      "That was disgusting, Pippin."

      "Well I'm sorry, I'm sure, Merry."  The youngest hobbit sniffed deeply and rubbed at his dripping nose.

       Sam handed him a handkerchief.  "Do you think Lord Elrond is going to make us take those nasty tonics o' his?"

      "I've had all of those I want," replied Frodo firmly.  "You three are welcome to my share."

      "Oh no, Cousin," returned Merry.  "If we have to drink anything nauseating, so do you.   You'll probably be first, as you came out the worst from our little dip in the river."

       "Let's not talk about that," moaned Samwise with a shiver.  "I don't even want 'ta think about it.  I'm never putting a toe in water bigger than a bathtub again.  And that includes them drowning-pools you lot call the bathhouse."

        "A hot bath would certainly feel good," murmured Frodo, blue eyes wistful.

       "Not much chance of that, with Lord Elrond confining us to your room," Merry said sorrowfully.

       A depressed silence settled over the hobbits.  In all truth, if they had to be constrained until they were better, the Ringbearer's room was the best choice.  The two-room suite was the largest of the accommodations Elrond had granted his guests and the balcony boasted a lovely view of Rivendell's mountains and waterfalls.  Though three smaller beds had been added to the room, the hobbits were comfortably ensconced in Frodo's.  Pippin lay on his stomach, feet kicking idly in the air.  Merry and Frodo sat back against the carved headboard, a book shared between them.  Sam sat tailor-fashion near Pippin, nimble fingers sewing up a pair of breeches the tweenager had torn the knees out of.  All four were covered in a colorful variety of warm blankets and quilts, which Elrond had firmly decreed stay in place.  Food ('nourishing, no doubt,' thought Frodo) was to be delivered to them and their needs met by attentive Elves.  

      "I'm going to go mad," Merry announced.

      "Will we be able to tell?" asked Pippin, and got a poke for his trouble.

       "Lads," began Frodo warningly, "it's going to be a long enough time in here without -"

      _"Achoo!"_

      Sudden the air was filled with flying pillows, without any of the hobbits quite being sure who had struck the first blow.   Feathers drifted through the room amidst gleeful hobbit-shouts.  Frodo went down under an assault from Merry; Pippin evened the score by bouncing hard just behind his cousins, sending them both windmilling into the air.  Sam had been waiting his chance and as Frodo and Merry descended, he flung his sturdy self flat on the bed, catapulting into the center.   Up went Frodo and Merry again, but got their revenge upon coming down, pillows at the ready.

       "Take that, you beast!"

       "Hah!  Right between the eyes!"

       Elrond opened the door at the sudden increase in volume and his ageless eyes widened in shock.  He had not seen such a sight since his children had been very, very young.  Seeing four adult (with the exception of one) hobbits engaged in such a pastime floored him.  A feather drifted over and lodged itself unnoticed in his dark hair.

      "Look out, sir!"

      "Get him, Sam!  Hold him down!" 

      "No tickling!  No tickling!" 

      Very carefully and quietly, Elrond closed the door.  Gandalf regarded the goose down feather from his chair and smiled, the sparkle back in his eyes,  "Wise decision," he remarked.  

      "We have entrusted the fate of the world to _these_?" Elrond asked, gesturing to the closed door.  From the sound of it, Pippin was being held down and murdered.

      The old wizard smiled, cocking his head as Frodo shrieked, "Not fair!  It's three against one!"

      Samwise's voice rose above the others.  "Good odds, those!"

      "I could think of no better Bearer," Gandalf remarked softly.  "The Ring will find no hold in Frodo Baggins.  It preys on greed and ambition and lust, and Frodo's heart contains none of those things.  There is no darkness in his soul."

      "Yet," said the Elf-lord softly, resuming his seat.

       Elrond was startled to see tears start in the wizard's eyes.  "Yet," Gandalf agreed.  

       The immortal Elf-lord regarded his old friend compassionately.  Gandalf seemed to have closed on himself, tearing gaze inward, his lined face drawn with pain.  Elrond's memory traveled back to his Council, when the hobbit had risen unnoticed to his feet and still weak from his dreadful wound, walked slowly into the edge of the quarreling combatants.  His soft voice still echoed in Elrond's ears.  "I will take the Ring!"  They had ignored him, all of them.  It was not until he repeated it, that the members turned to stare in shock.  And Elrond had seen such pain and such relief on Gandalf's face as to sear his heart.

       "What he may come to in the end we cannot know," Elrond said softly, seeking words to reassure and comfort.  

       "If he survives," whispered the wizard.

      Elrond acknowledged that with a nod of his elegant head.  "If he survives.  And is not broken by the bearing.   We cannot see all ends, my friend."  Gandalf nodded, his gaze still on the polished floor.  In a rare gesture, he wiped his hand roughly across his eyes.  

      At last the noise in the adjoining room ceased, except for a few scattered coughs.  "I wouldn't go in just yet," warned Gandalf as the Elf-lord rose.  "If I know hobbits, they are guiltily trying to stuff the feathers back in the pillowcases and think up a good explanation for the mess.  That they were resting quietly as you instructed, perhaps, when a flock of geese flew in the balcony doors and molted all over the room before departing."

      "I think we should face the miscreants together, old friend," suggested Elrond.  "We will be safer be there two of us."

* * * * *

      Being confined to the Ringbearer's room was not so dreadful, the hobbits came to decide.  The head cook decreed that, as the little folk would miss meals in the great hall and evenings in the Hall of Fire, that they should have the best Imladris could offer, even before that of its lord.  Luncheon was a splendid affair and appreciated not a whit less for being served on trays.  

      Bilbo selected several books of Elvish tales from the Library and spent much of the remainder of the day in the center of the enormous bed with the others leaning against him, reading tales of adventure and romance and wondrous deeds.  Frodo hung over one of the old hobbit's shoulders and Merry the other, Pippin's sharp chin digging into his hip.  Sam curled at Bilbo's feet, eyes abstracted and a gentle smile on his face.

       When the elderly hobbit's voice began to give out, he was saved from pleas to continue by the arrival of a steady stream of visitors and well-wishers.  Legolas came by to talk with them, as did Gimli.  The two regarded each other distrustfully but neither could fault the other's concern for the halflings.  To the hobbits' delight, the Dwarf brought with him several small wire puzzles he had made, twisted chains that seemed integrally linked but which Gimli swore could be taken apart if one could divine the secret.

       Merry ran one through his hands and stared at it for a long time, then with a sudden, economical movement, disengaged it.  Pippin worked and worked on his before giving up in disgust.  Merry took it and the others from him and spent an enjoyable hour figuring them out before linking them all back together again.  Sam accidentally stretched his to allow the wire to slip through, which the others avowed negated his victory.   Frodo claimed loftily that he was too old for such games, which prompted Merry to accuse his elder cousin of knowing his limits.  Frodo hit him with a pillow.

        From Gimli and Legolas the hobbits heard that Boromir also had been confined to quarters and was already bored and restless.  When Aragorn and Gandalf came some time later, the Elf and the Dwarf were sent off with many messages of greeting and thanks for Boromir, which they promised to deliver before tea.

       Elladan and Elrohir stopped in briefly, and then Arwen, her arms full of late-blooming flowers that she arranged in vases throughout the room.  Pippin trailed after her, picking up stray petals, stars in his eyes.  His elder cousins and Sam grinned at each other over the oblivious tweenager's head.  Amusement turned to envy when she bade them farewell.  The Evenstar wished them a speedy recovery then kneeling before the door, took Pippin's face in her long, slender hands and kissed his forehead.  Pippin sighed blissfully and returned to the bed, unaware of Merry's muttered complaints of his cold feet.  

       But by the next morning, the hobbits did not feel so social.  They had little appetite for breakfast and were silent with none of the talk and energy of the previous day.  Frodo's bruises were tender and his ribs ached from Boromir's desperate grip.  Sam and Merry and Pippin were congested and coughing and miserable.  All four suffered from a headache and intermittent chills, the result of immersion in freezing river water.

      Upon entering, Elrond found himself facing four indistinct lumps in Frodo's bed.  Were it not for those ridiculous, oversized feet, the Elf-lord would have been unable to tell top from toes.  After some consideration, he chose what appeared to be the smallest lump and peeled back the covers from unwilling fingers.

      "Now Master Peregrin – oh, excuse me, Frodo."  The hobbit looked up at him lethargically and the Elf-lord laid the back of his hand against the small forehead.  Hot … as he had feared.  The hobbit's skin felt dry and taut, covered with a thin sheen of perspiration.  Frodo closed his eyes and leaned into the cool hands.  He did not protest as Elrond examined his eyes and ears and throat, as cool hands pressed along his jawline and thumped his back, coughing obediently upon command.

       By now the healer had an audience. Merry was standing and balancing uncertainly on the soft mattress, watching with a hand on his elder cousin's shoulder to steady himself.  Pippin pressed against Frodo's sore ribs, interfering with the examination.  Sam had braced himself against his master's back, easing the strain of sitting up for him.  Elrond felt their anxious eyes upon him, following his every action.  He addressed the Ringbearer, well aware that he was addressing all four.  "You have developed rather a high fever, Master Frodo.  Do not be concerned – I have some excellent tonics to combat fever."

       Frodo nodded, that so-blue gaze dull.  Elrond's dark eyes narrowed.  "They are somewhat bad-tasting, I fear."  The hobbit nodded again.  The other three exchanged concerned glances and Pippin picked up Frodo's right hand, rubbing it gently.  Worried now by the lack of objection to his remedies, the Elf-lord elaborated, "In fact, they are quite foul.  Possibly the worst-tasting concoctions I possess."  Another listless nod.

      So.  Gently untangling the hobbit from the embrace of the others, Elrond wrapped up the Ringbearer in a quilt and carried him over to one of the ignored beds to examine him without the interference of hovering friends and relatives.  When the others would have followed, Elrond ordered them back into the bed with a sharp word and a lift of his eyebrows.  Cowed, the hobbits obeyed but watched him from the vantage of the headboard.

       Frodo bore this indignity with silent resignation.  His mouth a thin line, the healer unwrapped the hobbit and conducted his examination.  That completed, he slid the hobbit under the covers of the small bed.  For the first time Frodo showed interest, dark brows quirking and eyes traveling to the large bed where his friends were now watching fearfully.

      The Elf-lord addressed them.   "You may stay where you are, but Master Frodo will remain here – alone – in this bed until his fever goes down.  He will rest the better for the peace.  I will also ask you to remain quiet and stay in that bed.  If you do _not_," and here the Elf-lord paused and noted with satisfaction the almost imperceptible cringing of his patients, "I will be forced to administer some of my more unpleasant remedies to encourage sleep."  

        Hastily reassured of the halflings' obedience, Elrond departed.  Merry sighed and scooted back under the warm covers.  "It's going to be a long day," he observed to the world at large.

       "When is second-breakfast?" asked Pippin in the silence that followed.

* * * * *

       Not only were the hobbits ordered to stay in bed, but they soon discovered that Lord Elrond had curtailed their visitors.  An Elf standing at the door ensured this.  They heard familiar voices in the corridor, but all guests with the exception of Gandalf and Aragorn were denied admittance.  Glorfindel's clear tones pealed in the hallway and their hearts leaped hopefully, but the Elf-lord too was sent packing.  Bilbo was allowed to enter only briefly, and with a finger to his lips, the old hobbit silently doled out several more books he had selected for them.  Their mournful eyes followed him to the door.  The hobbits sighed and settled down to a reluctant nap.

       Frodo was already asleep.  He had shown them how he truly felt by curling up into a ball with his back to them and falling asleep almost immediately after Elrond's departure.  The others stayed quiet for his sake, and because their heads ached abominably.  Until almost luncheon, the only sounds in the quiet room were drifting strains of birdsong and occasional sneezes and coughs.

* TBC * 


	11. Painful Words

(Author's Note:  This is entirely a 'hobbity-angst' chapter.  After all the action and hardship, I felt the smallest members of the Company needed some time for themselves and to reflect upon their place in the world.  Kit, thanks for keeping at it and posting that delightful review.  Leah Beth, a little harmless fun was sorely needed, was it not?  Katakanadian, welcome back!  I was wondering where you had got to.  Azaelia, I think Gandalf loved all the hobbits very much.  A Elbereth, thank you for your compliment on the dialogue.  Such takes up most of this chapter.  Baylor, thank you for noting the tie-in to my earlier story.  At least it is some explanation for all the Frodo-torture.  I had your beautifully-written "Take Them As Was Willing" in mind when writing the painful confrontation between Merry and Pippin.  Shirebound, your hobbit-interaction is my inspiration.  Do you mind if I borrow your brilliant idea and post my stories in sequence on my bio page of FF.Net?  It might reduce the number of emails asking their chronological order.  Elwen, me too.  Arabella thorne, you can never say that too much.  Kay and Camellia Gamgee-Took and Endymion, thank you for listing the phrases you liked – such effort on your part helps me plan and highlight certain scenes.  And Endymion, that last comment of yours was so encouraging.  Hmsgirl, not this time, sorry.  Pansy Chubb and Aratlithiel, you knew you couldn't have four restless hobbits in a bed without a pillow-fight.  It was only a matter of 'when.'  Ariel and Coriandra, no Boromir this chapter [sorry] but you are right – he needs some "tlc" too.  Again, thank you for all the support and encouragement.)

Chapter 11:  Painful Words

      "Merry, Lord Elrond said we had to stay in bed," Pippin pointed out with a sniff.

      "So he did," his cousin agreed equitably.  "But he said nothing about the bed staying _here_." 

      "What are you thinking?" asked Sam cautiously.  The three had awoken not long ago and in the absence of visitors and activity, were growing more bored with each passing moment.  Even the dwarven puzzles Gimli had made them could not hold their interest.  None of the three felt _bad_, actually, just rather achy and sniffy and still congested.  The sun streaming in the balcony doors looked so inviting…  

      The young Brandybuck's eyes lit up.  "We could each take a corner of the mattress and push -"

      "No!" rang out Samwise's and Pippin's voices together, then hushed as they remembered the still-sleeping Frodo.  When Merry opened his mouth to argue his idea, Pippin shoved a handful of loose feathers in his cousin's face.  Merry accidentally inhaled some.  Samwise withdrew to the safety of the headboard and watched the ensuing tussle with resignation.  

       Older and heavier, Merry had succeeded in pinning Pippin to the mattress in question when their elder cousin's weary voice interrupted them.  The wrestling match (interspersed with coughs) ceased immediately.  "Lads," repeated Frodo tiredly, "what are you doing?"

      "Pippin pushed -"

      "Well, Merry said we should -"

      "I did not!"

      "Lord Elrond told us -"

      "He should have been more specific, then!"

      "He _meant_ -"  

      "Lads," groaned Frodo a third time.  He was now sitting up, arms wrapped tightly around his sore ribs.  Sometime during his passage down the river, a rock had given him a hard knock on the right shoulder, and the bruise was beginning to flower spectacularly.  He was profoundly glad it wasn't the left – that shoulder and arm were still somewhat tender, and he suspected they always would be.  He reached up and massaged the bruise absently, pulling at the silver chain around his throat under his nightshirt.  Then he rubbed his aching forehead.

     Sam crawled down off the bed and padded to the washstand, pouring out water from the pitcher and wetting a cloth in the basin.  The younger hobbits watched him worriedly.  "Sam," Pippin ventured hesitantly, "Lord Elrond -"

     "I'm not afraid o' him," replied Sam doggedly, "nor his nasty potions."  A slight quaver in his voice gave his words the lie.  "Mr. Frodo needs me 'ta take care of him, and I can't do it from over there."  With that he walked to his master's bed and pressed the cold cloth to Frodo's forehead.  Frodo sighed in relief.  "How are you feelin', sir?"

      "I've felt better, Sam.  How are you doing?"

      "All right, sir.  It's just a head cold.  I wouldn't even notice it, back home in the Shire."

      "The Shire," echoed Frodo quietly, easing himself back under the quilts.  He patted the side of the bed and Sam sat himself down, keeping the cool cloth pressed to the hot forehead.  Frodo pulled the top quilt over him, tucking it in to make sure it covered Sam's feet.  "What is happening there, I wonder?"

      "They'd be planning the Yuleday feast in the Great Smials," said Pippin softly.

      "And at Brandy Hall," added Merry, blue eyes distant.  "I wish we could take back all the things we've learned and seen here.  I'm sure the kitchens could make those cream-puff swans, with a little practice."

      "I'll eat all their mistakes," volunteered Pippin selflessly.  

      "Me Gaffer would be fattening the goose," contributed Sam.  "He picks one when it's just a gosling, and raises it special.  Cornbread and fat scraps, not scratch and bread crusts like the rest o' the duck yard.  It follows 'im around like a chick.  Half the time he can't bring himself 'ta kill it.  He's got four o' them that trails after him, now."

      "I remember," said Frodo.  "No offense, Sam, but your Gaffer makes quite a sight with all those geese waddling after him, single-file, honking at him to slow down."

      "Aye," chuckled Sam.  "O' course, the Gaffer's not so swift himself, now.  His joint-ache was giving him fits when we left."

      Frodo noticed that Pippin was knuckling his eyes, and the others had fallen silent, strained and pale.  He cursed himself for allowing this mood to overtake them.  They were so young, all of them…  With mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers at home, wondering where they had got to, and even if they were still alive. And in Sam's case, a certain young flower who would not understand his leaving.  And responsibilities to the lands that they were born to inherit, folk they were born to govern.

       He had none of those things.  Not family or home or the obligations of birth.  Bag End was no longer his and the little house in Crickhollow only a ruse, with no real hold on his heart.  

      "Meriadoc," the Ringbearer said gently.  "Peregrin and Samwise, friends of friends…"  his throat closed in pain and terror but he forced the words out, struggled to keep his voice even and calm, "you don't have to go with me.  You can go home.  I will be safe enough among the Big Folk.  There is no need for all of us to wander into exile -"    

      "No _need_?"  Not surprisingly, it was young Merry's voice that rose above the others'.  Frodo tried to hush him, waving his hands placatingly**,** mindful of the Elf posted at the door but Merry did not lower his voice.  "Frodo, we love you.  You know that.  Do you think we would let you go alone into danger?"

      Merry had more to say but Sam could not keep silent.  "Aye, that's right!" he almost shouted, then blushed when they turned to him in startlement at his uncharacteristic outburst.  "Me Gaffer would take the hide off me back if I ever left you, Mr. Frodo.  Not that I would."  Arms crossed over his chest, Sam delivered the last with such a fierce glare that Frodo stared at him in astonishment.

       Merry shook his head at his elder cousin's foolishness.  "Sam is a brave fellow and would jump down a dragon's throat to save you, Frodo, if he had to.  So would Pip and so would I.  Cousin, you said in the bathhouse that our just being here was use enough to you.  Enough to remind you why you are doing this.  Enduring this."

      "Yes, but -" began Frodo, but Merry cut him off. 

       "I don't think you've considered this from our point of view, Cousin."  Blue eyes stared into blue.  "Say Sam and Pip and I do return to the Shire.  We soothe ruffled family feathers and settle down and hope you'll come back to us.  Maybe get married."  Merry darted a wicked look at Sam and the stocky hobbit blushed.  "But what if our not being there at some crucial moment causes you to falter?  What if you need that reminder of why you are doing this, and we are not there to give it?  What then?"

      Frodo would have responded but again Merry did not allow it.  "I'll _tell_ you what then.  The darkness would roll over the Shire like a wave.  We've seen the outside world now, Frodo.  We no longer hold the illusion that hobbits could defend themselves against Men and Orcs and evil things that shriek and attack in the night.  We are small folk, Frodo, all of us.  The Shire would be overrun in days."

      Pippin had remained quiet during all of this, his green-gold eyes flitting anxiously among his elders, hands alternately pulling the quilts into little mounds then smoothing them out.  His eyes jerked to Merry's face when his cousin continued, "But Pippin, I think, should go home."

      Frodo's and Sam's mouths dropped, shock on their countenances.  It was inconceivable that the two cousins be parted.  Ever since Pippin had been deemed old enough to toddle about under his nurse's watchful eye, his older cousin had been there to care for him.  In the Shire, one hardly spoke of them separately; it was 'Merry and Pippin' as if the two were somehow linked.  Even when they were not together, it was always 'Merry and Pippin.'

       "Merry!" cried Pippin.

       "It's not because you are so young, Pip.  Well, not entirely.  There are innumerable cousins who could succeed to the office of Master of Buckland," said Merry almost coldly, "if I do not come back.  But there are no other possible heirs to the Thainship than Pippin.  He should return to the Shire."

       "Merry!  You can't mean that!"

       Merry swiveled to face his younger cousin slowly, as if reluctant to look into that pale sharp-chinned face.  "I do mean it, Pip.  There will be no chance to turn back after we leave Rivendell.  One of us should go back and tell everyone that we are all right and what we are doing, and why.  They won't understand, but they'll accept it.  And maybe someday, we'll get home."  Merry grinned at Pippin weakly.  "Then we'll make a night of it in the Green Dragon, eh?"

       No one responded to the weak jest.  Frodo seemed stunned, unable to force coherence upon his thoughts.  Sam was silent, leaving this battle between the cousins to them.  Pippin's face was shiny with tears.  They cascaded down his sharp face in a steady stream.  "I can't believe you would say that," he whispered.  "How could you be so cruel?"

      "Cruel?"  Merry tilted his head, his own emotion held under such tight control that he wondered he did not burst with it.  "Is it cruel to want you to be alive, Pippin?  Cruel to want you to go back to your mother and da and sisters?  Cruel to want to spare you the hardship and danger and pain that's surely coming?"

      "Why are you doing this?" whispered Pippin.  "How can you think that I would go back, when you and Frodo go on?  Why, Merry?"

      Merry opened his mouth but no words came out.  He shook his bright head.  "Pip, I'm thinking of you.  And your family.  And -"

      "Is it because of the accident with the knife?  I know you didn't do it on purpose.  I wasn't hurt, Merry."

     _"You could have been!" _

"Ah, that's it, then," murmured Sam.  Seeing his master's eyes upon him, Sam flushed and ducked his head, distancing himself from the family drama.

      "Pip, we love you.  All of us.  You can't be angry that we want to spare you?"

      Frodo was looking from one to the to the other, dark head turning from side to side.  Somehow, this had passed beyond his control.  He had to stop it before words were said that could never be unsaid, words that would fester in the heart forever.  But his head had begun to ache fiercely, pounding so hard that his vision was affected, bright flashes of light sparking behind his eyelids.  He felt like someone had shoved a sharp stick into the back of his skull.  Through slitted eyes, he saw Sam looking down at him in consternation.

      "Yes, I can!" Pippin flung back at Merry.   "_Spare_ me?  I call that cruel.  I may not be of age, Merry, but I'm not a child."  A great gulp threatened that statement but the tweenager mastered it and forced it down.     

       Frodo turned his head away from the sunlight streaming in the balcony doors.  With a glance at his master, Sam went over to the doors and pulled the drapes shut, darkening the room as much as he could.  Frodo put up a hand to his head, rubbing distractedly at the stabbing ache.  He was beginning to feel nauseous.  

      "Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam worriedly.

       Frodo shook his head, then was very sorry he did so.  The room tilted sideways and moved around him.  He latched onto the mattress and held on for dear life.

      Pippin was continuing and Frodo tried to force himself to pay attention to the words.  They seemed to slither through his mind, their sense just beyond his grasp.  "How do you think I would feel, left back home in safety, knowing that you and Sam and Frodo were out there somewhere, trying to save the world?  Whatever I can do to help Frodo, I will.  I can gather firewood and set snares and use a sling as well as you."  Pippin paused and scrubbed the tears from his face, raising a dry face but one set and pale.  "I won't be left behind."

      "Pippin," Merry pleaded.

      "No, Merry."    

       Merry was silent for several long moments.  Then he said, "You understand I had to try?"

       Pippin nodded.  "I understand.  You said what you had to, and I've said what I had to.  It's over now, Merry.  We'll not discuss it again."

       Surprisingly, Merry nodded and dashed a tear from his own face. 

       "Well, that's settled," said Sam decisively, relieved that it hadn't been worse.  He'd had his own reservations about the tweenager accompanying them, but it wasn't his place to say anything.  "That is, if it's all right with you, Mr. Frodo."

       The two cousins realized that it truly wasn't their decision.  They turned to the Ringbearer apprehensively.  Frodo was lying in the small bed with his hand over his eyes.  Merry thought he was weeping.  "Frodo?" he said softly.

       Frodo shuddered and the hand dropped from his eyes.  Instead of coming to rest on his chest, the hand continued its fall and swung limply alongside the bed.

       "_Frodo!"_

* TBC *


	12. Hurts and Comforts

(Author's Note:  Gentle Hobbit, what a wonderful idea.  My idea of heaven would be participating in a writers' symposium at a _LotRs_ convention.  A Elbereth, to answer your question – no.  A friend beta's for me, usually weeks after I post.  So the best version of my work people never see.  Tathar, thank you for the wonderfully analytical reviews.  I am honored by your effort.  Tmmeow, thank you.  It is comments like that that keeps me going.  Distortion, I hope your testing turned out all right and you didn't write 'Frodo' all over your math paper.  Leah Beth and Pansy Chubb, I grew up without extended family and wanted them all my life.  I hope you and the children treasure what you have.  Shireling/Helen, I will try.  He needs some TLC.  Hi, ChildofChild!  Elbereth, ref the end of this chapter ... Boromir might have a few _words _for you.  Kit, your first stanza, especially the last two lines, brought tears to my eyes.  TTTurtle, thanks.  Though sometimes I wish they'd be a little more quiet about it.  Endymion, I worked and worked on a summary of the confrontation scene and couldn't get one, then read your "different from his companions, has his family with him, offers them to go home to _their_ families" and that was just what I wanted.  Aratlithiel and Hmsgirl, just a little, and to make a larger point.  Kay, couldn't you just see Pip, innocence glowing from every pore, delivering that line?  Arabella thorne, you are right and I feel guilty.  Nilmandra, I think Elrond regrets that decision - or will.  Shirebound, I see what you mean in your wonderful first chapter of "By Chance or Purpose."  We are of an age; maybe we were meant to be twins?  Katakanadian, very close, I think.  Certainly not more than two weeks.  Elwen, I've never read a more succinct review.   Firnsarnien, I get the picture!   LilyBaggins, I re-read "The Pine-woods Excursion" before writing the Bilbo/Frodo scene.  Sniff.  Sigh.  Baylor, thank you for approving.  Coriandra, the first echoes of some major homesickness angst…  QTPie-2488, I think Merry endures a constant, lurking fear for Pippin every day of the Quest.  Again, everyone, thanks for all the support and encouragement – and threats, name-calling and cries for more!)

Chapter 12:  Hurts and Comforts

       Elrond closed the door to Frodo's room gently, his face remote and his high brow creased.  His dark eyes sought out the three hobbits and as one, they huddled together on the small bed on which they sat.  Their beds had been removed from the Ringbearer's room and placed in this adjoining room, and they in them, forbidden entry until Elrond said they could go in.  Even Sam, which had frightened the three worse than any number of immortal stares of disapproval.

       Elrond exchanged soft words with one of his folk, and that one left to do his lord's bidding.  It seemed to Merry that that one gave them a cool glance of censure, too.  Elrond turned from the door and seated himself on one of the beds across from the hobbits, his heavy robes settling about him in faint whispers of silk and velvet.  He said nothing, but merely stared at them with the mien of one who has never had to count the rushing seconds that made up the hours of his life.

      Sam thought he would burst did not the Lord of Imladris tell them what was wrong with Frodo.  When Elrond did nothing more than look at them, he could not contain himself.  "Please, sir," Sam cried, "what's the matter with me master?"

      Those dark, ageless eyes centered on the hobbit.  But the lord did not reply directly to Sam's question.  "It is a good thing," he said almost as an aside, "that I posted an Elf at Frodo's door to ward off visitors.  His summons allowed me to arrive quickly."  His gaze roved over them.  "My Elf tells me that he heard raised voices and that you woke Frodo with your … discussion."

      "Yes," said Merry, giving no explanation or excuse for their actions.  

       Elrond's dark eyebrows drew together.  "The Ringbearer is still recovering from a dreadful wound that almost killed him.  I still marvel that it did not."  The Elf-lord paused, but the hobbits did not interrupt.  "His strength returns, but that wound will never fully heal.  Frodo is…" the healer paused, searching for words to make them understand.  "Frodo is more fragile now."

       Now the dark eyebrows drew down.  "He does _not _need to have his kin and friends causing him stress when he needs to rest and recover from a very traumatic experience."

      Pippin could not bear that accusing stare.  "We didn't mean –"

      "I have decided," continued Elrond, effortlessly overriding the tweenager, "to ensure that Frodo rests by removing all of you to share quarters with Boromir until you are recovered.  I will attend you there."

     "Sir!" cried Sam, "Mr. Frodo needs me 'ta do for him!"

     Merry supported Sam.  "Sam's right, my lord," said the young hobbit slowly.  "Frodo will miss him dreadfully if you separate them.  I love my cousin dearly, but he doesn't always show the greatest judgment."

      Lord Elrond's gaze bored into the young hobbits, and Merry hung his head.  "Nor us, I suppose."

* * * * * 

       Lord Elrond and Gandalf stared at the glittering display of bright-edged weapons spread on a leather wrap before them, then at the beaming Dwarf.  Gimli had requested an audience and Elrond had granted it, waiting while his orders concerning the hobbits were being carried out.

         Gimli inhaled deeply, then ran a thick hand lovingly over the lethal assemblage.  "All scaled down to halfling size," he rumbled.  "But just as sharp and deadly as full-sized."  He picked up a morning star and the late afternoon sun glinted off the deadly spikes.  There wasn't room in the small gazebo in which the three sat to swing it at full extension, so the Dwarf ran the chain through his hands, swinging the weighted ball a little to show its balance.

       "Most … impressive, Master Gimli," Elrond said at length.

       Gimli nodded proudly.  "My thanks to your foundry-master, my lord.  Couldn't have done it without him.  A fine Elf, that," he added rather grudgingly.  "Knows his metal-work."

       Gandalf hid a smile in his beard at the Dwarf's reluctant approval.  He picked up a flail and waved it experimentally.  "Samwise might be able to wield this.  It is based on a threshing flail, after all, and I know he has helped bring in the Shire's harvests."  The head of the flail was jagged, sides honed to razor-edges.  

      Gimli nodded.  "Aye, a flail takes strength and little else."

      Elrond leaned over the miniature weapons and selected a battle-axe, turning it over to admire the excellent work of the blade and hilt.  "The same might be said of a battle-axe, Master Gimli."   Before the Dwarf could bristle at him, the Elf-lord added, "But you and I know better."  He sighed.  "All of these weapons require long training.   And they do not address the secondary problem."

      Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow but said nothing, laying the flail back down.  

     "The hobbits are small, Master Gimli.  They must reach up to deliver a stroke.  They do not have great strength.  All they have is quickness - and courage.  I applaud your wish to help in arming them, but…" Elrond hoped he did not give offense to the prickly dwarf.  "I think it best if they continue with the swords that providence gifted them."

       Gimli ran a hand lovingly over the weapons.  "I understand, my lord.  If we had more time…  Well, it kept me busy, anyway."

      After the Dwarf had rolled up his efforts and departed, Gandalf turned to his old friend.  "I did not want to intervene, Elrond, as he put so much effort into them, and brought them to you, but…"

      Elrond nodded.  "Yes.  I would not allow those sharp objects near our halflings, either.  They manage to get into quite enough trouble without providing them the means to do themselves and each other even greater harm."

      A twinkle showed in the old wizard's eyes.  "Can you imagine young Pippin getting his hands on any of those?"

      Elrond shuddered then smiled in spite of himself.  "May the Valar protect us."

      Gandalf leaned back and pulled his pipe out of its resting-place in his staff.  "Ummm … Southern Star, I think."  The first tendril of sweet pipe-smoke wafted into the breeze.  "I think we might be going about this wrong, Elrond."

      The Elf-lord's attention returned to the wizard.  "What do you mean?"

      "We have been trying to stuff as much knowledge and survival-skills into the hobbits as we can, have we not?"  Not certain where this was leading, Elrond nodded neutrally.  "And look what's happened.  Bumps and bruises and cuts and now this hurt of Frodo's, which you tell me was brought on by anxiety as much as injury."

      "Your point?"

      "We have been treating them as if they were warriors going into battle.  They are not.  Hobbits are not like Men, or Elves."  Gandalf blew out a smoke ring and they watched it drift away.  "My point is that we might be pushing them too hard.  That we might be so busy teaching them our ways that we forget they have their own."

       "Their way of fighting," murmured Elrond.

      "What?"

      Elrond shook his head.  "Something Bilbo said to me."  He sighed.  "I did not truly understand what he meant.  What then do you suggest?"

      "That we leave them alone for the time we have left here.  Just give them what lessons they ask for.  Merry and Pippin will want to continue sword-fighting with Boromir, I am sure.  Sam might want more knife-training from Legolas.   And Frodo…  Frodo needs time to gather his will and strength and focus for the effort that is coming."

       "Gandalf, old friend, I tremble to think of those young hobbits roaming Imladris unsupervised."

      "Oh, we'll keep them busy.  Long, strengthing walks…  Camping out and providing their own dinners.  I just think we should stop pushing them in things that are unnatural to hobbits.  Like learning to kill."

       "That is the reason for the Fellowship, after all.  To protect and assist the Ringbearer."  Elrond rose, his attention on the Elf that waited at the entrance to the garden, a tray between his hands.  "I must attend to a matter.  But, Gandalf, I think you are right.  We will let the hobbits be hobbits."  

* * * * *     

      Gentle hands, warm and tender, stroking his head.  A familiar, comforting scent of pipe-weed and soap and frosted tea-buns.  Frodo sighed and opened his eyes.  "Bilbo?"

       "I'm here, lad."  The warm hands moved around to the back of his neck and rubbed gently at the joining of the hobbit's neck to his skull.  Frodo closed his eyes blissfully.  "Oh, that feels wonderful."

      The careful rubbing continued.  "Elrond said you would like it.  It will help you relax."

      Frodo realized he was lying in his own bed with his head in Bilbo's lap, his uncle propped up against the headboard.  And the room was silent and still, the only movement the dance of dust-motes in a sunbeam.  "The others -"

      "Are staying in Boromir's room for a day or two, lad.  They can all sneeze on each other.  Except for Sam, of course." 

      Frodo chuckled and grimaced as a cool cloth was laid over his eyes.  "Hullo, Sam."

      "Hullo, sir.  Just you stay still now."

     This Frodo did, feeling too eviscerated to move overmuch.   After a while, he asked, "What happened?"

      The gentle massage faltered for a moment, then resumed.  "Elrond said you experienced a 'migraine.'  A tilt of the dark head conveyed Frodo's incomprehension.  "Elrond said," Bilbo continued slowly, still struggling to understand the Elf-lord's explanation, "that the small vessels that feed blood to the brain constrict under stress.  It causes great pain."

     Frodo nodded, dislodging the cloth.  He kept his eyes shut.  The cloth was wetted and replaced, easing the burning that started in his eyes and seemed to drill all the way to the roots of his hair.  "I suppose being swept down a river through rapids and almost drowning could qualify as 'stress'," he mused.

     "Elrond said it was triggered by some kind of argument going on in here, lad," came Bilbo's voice.  "Care to tell your old uncle what it was all about?"

     Frodo winced.  By the gentle tinkling sounds in the corner of the room, Sam was busily pouring more water into the basin, his back carefully to them.  "It wasn't really an argument, Bilbo.  Merry and Pippin and I just had to sort some things out."

     "You evidently sorted them so well it gave you a migraine, lad," growled Bilbo.

     Frodo said nothing.  

     "All right, all right," the old hobbit muttered, capitulating.  "Keep your secrets, then.  Elrond says you're to stay still for the rest of the day.  You should be fine tomorrow.  Are you hungry?"

      _"No!"_  Frodo drew a breath and tried to rein in the surge of nausea.  "No, thank you, Bilbo.  I'd rather not eat anything for a while."

      "Plain unnatural for a hobbit," grumbled Bilbo under his breath.  "Listen to me, Frodo-lad -"

      Whatever Bilbo had been about to say was lost in a soft knock at the door.  Sam hurried to open it, happy to see whomever would spare his master a scolding.

      "Good afternoon," Elrond said, and held up a tray on which resided a delicate glass phial filled with a frothy liquid.  "I have something for you to drink, Frodo."

      Frodo groaned.   Sam hid a smile, until he noticed a second phial on the tray.

* * * * *

    _"Achoo!"_

    _"Achoo!  Achoo!"_

     "Are you quite finished?" asked Boromir anxiously.

    _"Achoo!_  I think so, Boromir."  Pippin sniffed and rubbed his nose, while Merry used a handkerchief.  Sitting back at his ease, Boromir reflected that he did not entirely know what to make of his new roommates.  

     Hobbits, beds, and a small stack of nightshirts and personal belongings had been moved into his room without as much as asking him, which he supposed was the Elf-lord's right.  The halflings had greeted him courteously, settled themselves in, exclaimed over the view out the balcony, then piled onto his bed, forcing Boromir to draw up his long legs to make room.  While he understood Lord Elrond's reasoning in that they all would be easier to care for together, he was beginning to wonder if being bored wasn't preferable to being halfling-entertainment.  The two were now sitting at the foot of his bed, arms wrapped around knees, gazing at him hopefully.  They had requested a tale, and Boromir did not quite know what to do.

      "Go on, then," encouraged Merry.

      "I know few tales that are suitable…" Boromir began.

      "Good!" grinned Pippin.  "Let's have an unsuitable one!"

      Boromir gazed at them back helplessly.  There was the one of the widow and her boarding-house of retired warriors … no.  The caravan-master and his harem of … no.  The … _definitely_ not that one.  "Ahhhh…" he hedged, beginning to sweat.

      "Would you like me to sing?" Pippin asked him.  "I know_ lots_ of songs."

      A soft knock on the door saved him.   Pippin bounced to his feet to greet Lord Elrond, causing Merry to fall backwards with a squawk on the soft mattress.  "Boromir's going to tell us unsuitable stories!" he announced to the Master of Rivendell.  

       The soldier flushed red under the Elf's non-judgmental gaze.  If the man could have swallowed his pride enough to plead, he would have.  Lord Elrond's eyes shifted to the hobbits.  "Not until you all have taken this tonic," he informed them, "then a nap."  Those dark eyes shifted to Boromir and the man could have sworn the Elf-lord was laughing at him, though no feature of that elegant face betrayed it.  "Then … you are on your own, Lord Boromir."

* TBC *


	13. Hiding from Hobbits and Hobbits in Hidin...

(Author's Note:  Leah Beth, you are not mistaken.  That scene was written from personal experience.  Firiel, I think that you are right.  Arabella thorne, I am curious, too.  Maybe a _slightly_ unsuitable story, Kit and Coriandra?  Endymion, you need to master Elrond's steely gaze.  Being a mighty Elf-lord would help, too.  Nilmandra, I also love seeing Elrond in stories.  Elwen writes a wonderful Elrond; I am sure you have read her stories.  Baylor and Gentle Hobbit, I had another plot-line worked out in which Gimli schools the hobbits in those weapons, but didn't have the nerve to write it.  Elrond kept giving me that _look_.  Shirebound, I'm sorry to hear you have migraines.  I read somewhere that it was a common affliction of creative people.  QTPie-2488 and Helga, once Pippin gets his teeth into an idea, he hangs on like a rat terrier.  Look at what he has reduced Boromir to.  Shireling, a few days of hobbit-roommates could soften up _anybody_.  LilyBaggins, I have a long way to go till I can write h/c as well as you, but you are a wonderful teacher.  Pansy Chubb, you went right to the heart of Pippin's comment to Elrond.  Aratithliel, that deep relationship between the three must have started somewhere.  Thank you, everyone, for supporting this story.)

Chapter 13:  Hiding from Hobbits and Hobbits in Hiding

       Boromir was saved from relating "unsuitable stories" to the two young halflings by another peculiarity of hobbit-nature, which he was just coming to appreciate.  They were hungry.  He discovered they were _always_ hungry.

       Lord Elrond had stayed until all three had downed their tonics, with many grimaces and mumbled complaints from the hobbits.  Boromir felt that the Elf-lord's presence was the only thing that kept the little ones from immediately pouring their medicine into the chamber pot.  Lord Elrond knew it too, and stood with his arms folded and a forbidding expression on his face until every last drop was drunk.  That done, he escorted them firmly back to their own beds and saw them settled there.

      "Now you will rest," he informed them, ignoring Pippin's mulish expression.  "And you are not to crawl in with Boromir.  He too is ill and needs his rest.  Trays will be sent to you at the dinner-hour."  With that, the mighty lord had awarded the halflings a long stare, and departed.

      Boromir had been subjected to enough disapproving glares from his governesses, tutors and his father to recognize the look.  He waited until he judged the Elf-lord was safely out of easy hearing, then asked, "What did you do?"

      Merry raised his eyes, startled, from where he had been scowling at the floor.  "Nothing, really."  When Boromir looked politely disbelieving, he sighed and elaborated.  "Just had a little family discussion in Frodo's room.  Nothing, really.  There was a some … shouting.  I suppose it got a little out of hand and upset Frodo."

      "He's sick again," contributed Pippin unhappily.

      Boromir nodded wisely, memories of the "family discussions" he had held with his younger brother passing through his mind.  "And that is why you are here instead of there?"

      The two halflings nodded guiltily.  "We're to let him have some peace and quiet," Pippin added.

      "By disrupting mine?"  Boromir smiled to show he was teasing, and after a moment, their strained expressions relaxed.

      "I suppose."  Merry smiled in return.

      "Now, about those stories -" pursued Pippin relentlessly.  

      "Lord Elrond said we were to rest," Boromir reminded them desperately, casting about for any change of subject.

      "Oh, that's right."  Boromir tried to hide his relief at their crestfallen expressions.  He was immeasurably glad to see them settle down and fall asleep in a matter of moments.  The man stayed awake though, defying the Elf-lord's orders, struggling to devise stories he thought appropriate for young ears to hear.  He did not have nearly enough time before Pippin yawned hugely (and loudly) and woke his cousin.

      "I'm hungry," announced Merry, sitting up and rubbing his stomach.  

      "I have some fruit," offered Boromir, and prayed the distraction would last until supper arrived.

      "Will you tell us a story while we eat?" asked Pippin.

      Boromir began to sweat again.  Despite racking his brain, he had not come up with a tale that he thought proper for them.  The tales passed among soldiers as they awaited battle would sicken and terrify them, he was certain.  He had turned his mind back to the almost-forgotten stories his mother had told him as he leaned against her while she rocked a tiny Faramir in her lap.  Her face had become obscured by the mists of time and he was surprised to discover he remembered best not her words, but the love she had infused into them as she cradled her sons.

      "I have a poem you might like," he volunteered.  "My mother used to sing it to my brother and I when we were small."

     "Oh, good!" said the halflings simultaneously, and the man found himself the utter center of their attention.  Suddenly self-conscious, he cleared his throat and chanted, his voice softening as he seemed to hear his mother's voice blending with his.

_      Gleaming gray in the moonlit mist,_

_ A shadow paler than its fellows_

_Whirls and leaps 'round the forest glade_

_Weaving enchantment among the willows._

_     Whiter than the pure maid's heart,_

_Grass wells green 'neath dainty hooves_

_Spiraled horn luminous light does shine_

_As the unicorn dances on mushroom roofs._

_     Soft-eyed does with wondering fawns,_

_Stand humbly on knobby knees_

_As the immortal unicorn_

_Dances partnered with the breeze._

_    The world has long ago forgot_

The griffins, the dragons, the mers 

_Of all the beasts of Fairlyland_

_The unicorn alone endures._

_     A warbling chirp in the silence chimes,_

_The unicorn stands still as stone_

_A bird's song breaks the magic spell_

_At dawn the unicorn returns to its own._

_     Back it steps into the fading mists,_

_Then taps its bright lance to the bower_

_Now nothing is left in the woodland ring_

_But lonely deer and a strange white flower." *_

      "Oh," breathed Pippin.  "I like that."

      "It was one of my mother's favorites," Boromir replied gently, surprised to find an unaccountable stinging in his eyes.  

      "Will you tell us another of her favorites?"

      "That is inconsiderate, Pippin," remarked Merry, unknowingly rescuing the soldier.  "Boromir might be hungry, too.  It is unfair to ask him to give us a tale when he wants to eat."

      "I am sorry!" Pippin apologized immediately.  The tweenager bounced to his feet and fetched a large bowl of fruit from a side table, pouring them each a cup of water.  He held up the bowl to Boromir with a bow, offering him first selection.  Bemused, the man chose a pear and watched as Merry selected an apple.  Retaining possession of the fruit-bowl, Pippin scrambled up on Boromir's bed again and made him himself comfortable.  In blatant disobedience of Elrond's instructions, Merry joined him a moment later.  By asking them questions about themselves and their home, their likes and dislikes, the man was able to keep the talk general until a knock at the door announced the arrival of the dinner-trays.  

* * * * *

       "It certainly is quiet in here," remarked Aragorn to Arwen.

        "Father has confined the halflings and the man to their rooms until their colds pass, beloved," explained Arwen.  "Are you certain that you are not sickening?"

        "I am perfectly well," Aragorn assured her.  Reassured, the Ranger felt a cool hand slip into his underneath the High Table, and caress his palm.  He squeezed it gently then released it to allow her to eat.  Indeed, the usual hum of conversation in the great hall seemed muted and lacking, somehow.  He was not the only one noting the absence of shrill hobbit-voices, he thought.  Many of the other diners, Gimli and Legolas included, were regarding the four empty seats and their stacks of unused cushions with regret.  It seemed the hobbits had captured more hearts than his own.

       "They are a merry folk," murmured Arwen, following his thoughts as she so often did.  Words were superfluous things between them; they could speak with their eyes, and tonight her eyes shone like the breaking of dawn after a cold and starless night.           

       How beautiful she was, he thought.  Her skin glowed like ivory in candlelight, her hair a cascade of black silk.  She wore it down tonight, as she knew he liked it, and it shifted with each of her breaths, shining and lovely.  Arwen lowered her head and faint roses bloomed in her alabaster cheeks.  

      "Ah, love," he said softly.

      "Eat," she admonished him.   "We will visit them later."

* * * * * 

      The Ranger and his beloved were talking softly as they drifted down the hallway.  Aragorn held a plate in his hands, piled high with goodies that he and Arwen had sneaked out under Elrond's watchful eye from the High Table.  The two had giggled like children, stuffing after-dinner chocolates and mints and sweets into their clothing.  The Master of Rivendell had pointedly ignored them.  They were now busy unearthing the sweets from various pockets and pouches.  Aragorn could not restrain a laugh when Arwen sought a shadowed corner and vigorously shook her bosom, causing several paper-wrapped candies to fall to the floor.  "Best not tell the halflings where you stored those, my love," Aragorn whispered to her.  "Young Pippin would faint away on the spot."

      Stooping gracefully to retrieve the candies, Arwen gave him a look of mock distain.  Further converse was pre-empted by a soft, "Hist!  Hist!"

      The two looked about them, then saw a shifting of the shadows in a nook across the corridor.  

      "Boromir?" asked Aragorn.  "Is that you?"  The man of Gondor emerged from behind a gracefully carven statue and made frantic shushing motions at him.  Thoroughly puzzled now, the Ranger glided closer.

     "Lower your voice, Aragorn, I beg you."

     "Boromir, are you hiding from Merry and Pippin?"

      The soldier of Gondor craned his neck and peered desperately up and down the corridor.  "Of course not!  You didn't see them, did you?"

      Arwen followed, struggling to contain her laughter.  Boromir bowed to her.  "My lady."  Then he turned back to the Ranger, anguish in his eyes.        "Aragorn, they want stories.  And songs.  I haven't any to give them - a life spent in battle does not lend itself to the singing of songs and the telling of tales."  Boromir's voice had gradually been rising despite his own pleas for quiet, and now he visibly reined himself in and glanced frantically up the corridor, as if fearing pursuit by Black Riders at the very least.  "My lady, you must ask your father to return them to their rooms.  I beg you.  They are driving me insane."

      "Lord Boromir, how can that be?  They are a most courteous and well-mannered folk."

     "They are so _persistent_.  The young one, especially.  He has fastened upon an unfortunate remark of mine, and now follows me about like a puppy.  Much to the unhelpful amusement of the other one, I might add.  I only escaped by offering to take the trays back to the kitchen and return with more food."

      Arwen reclaimed the plate of sweets from her intended and handed it to Boromir.  "This will occupy them for some time.  We will go back with you, and Aragorn and I will keep them amused until it is time to sleep."

      "Thank you, my lady," Boromir whispered gratefully.  "I am forever in your debt."

* * * * *

      The Ranger and the Lady had originally decided to visit the Ringbearer and Sam and Bilbo first, but Boromir's rescue diverted them from those plans.  It was just as well, perhaps, because all was not well in Frodo's room.  Frodo's migraine had eased, and as long as he did not look directly at a candle or move his head too quickly, he was not in great discomfort.  But he was very tired, and still stuffy and aching, and he did not want to eat the dinner which had been delivered to him.  He wanted to go to the Hall of Fire and curl up on the hearth and hear the tales and songs.  He was not well enough, and it seemed that all his hurts and weariness combined into one great ache that made him want to hide away under the covers and escape in sleep.

      Sam removed the tray regretfully, noting how little his master had downed.  "Sir -"

      "Don't you start in on me, Sam," Frodo said tiredly.  "If you don't like how much is left, you eat some."  He lay back down and closed his eyes.  Sam set the tray near the others at the door, not taking advantage of Frodo's offer.  The sturdy hobbit had thrown off the effects of the freezing water faster than any of the others; except for an occasional sniff or sneeze, Sam was well enough.  Not for the first time, Sam wished he could impart some of his own excellent health to his master.

       Even his uncle's gentle scolding and coaxing had been unsuccessful in encouraging Frodo this time.  Sam watched Bilbo stifle his own worry and frustration with his stubborn nephew and reach over to stroke Frodo's dark curls.  Those old eyes looked up at Sam for help, but Sam could only shrug.  Frodo was setting himself up for "one o' Himself's moods," as his Gaffer called them, and Sam mightily wished to distract him.  It was therefore with great relief that Sam answered the door, surprised to find Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf there, eying each other uncomfortably.

      "Would you like 'ta come in?" Samwise asked them, unsure if he was violating a command of the Lord's or not.  Master Elrond had said Mr. Frodo was to rest, but the Elf-lord didn't have to contend with his master's melancholy moods.

      Some time later, Elrond and Gandalf paused before the door, their ears catching the deep rumbles of the Dwarf's laugher and the silvery piping that was the Elf's.  Interspersed among them were peals of hobbit-laughter.  The two regarded each other in surprise.  "Well, we were wondering how to make them work together," Gandalf said, his bushy eyebrows raised.

      Elrond nodded, his hand still raised to knock.  "I had thought to congratulate them on their teamwork in Frodo's rescue.  Make much of how Legolas guided the river-craft while Gimli supplied the power.  Their strengths compliment each other, if only they would realize it."

      More laugher rang out past the wooden door, the tones of hobbit and Elf and Dwarf blending like music.  Gimli's voice was a great bassoon, Legolas' a flute.  Two clarinets and an oboe wove melody between them.  Elrond inclined his head gracefully, a small smile in those dark, immortal eyes.  "Perhaps they are realizing it now."

* TBC *

* _The Unicorn_ by Budgielover.  


	14. Night Terrors and Morning Adventures

(Author's Note:  My thanks to Marigold for volunteering to beta for me; the first real beta I've ever had.  Her suggestion of the nightmare and her input has vastly improved this story.   A Elbereth, I'm glad you enjoyed the lighter chapters - everyone needed a respite.  It's over now.  Elwen and Endymion, isn't nice to see Arwen's playful side?  We so rarely do.  Tathar, you be happy to hear I am working on a pre-Quest story that features the Gaffer, "Where Our Hearts Truly Lie."  It should see light one of these days.  Arabella thorne, hsmgirl and Coriandra, I'm pleased you enjoyed the unicorn poem.  Bookworm2000, I hear Bilbo as the oboe … deeper and more mature than the clarinets.  Aratlithiel, I agree that Pippin probably has some "unsuitable stories" that would curl Boromir's hair.  I can just see the poor man's look of glazed terror.  Smalldiver and lotrmatrixstarwarsfan, welcome!  LilyBaggins, sorry but Frodo's guests snap him out of his melancholy mood.  He'll no doubt work himself up into a state of anxiety another time.  Kay, yes I do!  With non-breakable things.  Shireling and Leah Beth, thank you for your comments on the drawing of visual pictures.  Firnsarnien, your Legolas fixation is beginning to worry me.  I understand, though, having a Frodo fixation myself.  Childofchild, Boromir's reluctance has much to do with his noble upbringing; a gentleman does _not_ tell tales of that nature to anyone – especially those he considers too young and innocent to hear them.  Baylor and QTPie-2488, I always felt that scene of movie-Boromir giving sword lessons to Merry and Pippin had to have a foundation in Rivendell.  TTTurtle, Frodo _does_ indeed have a personality problem - he's the Ringbearer.  Shirebound, such words from the "master of _LotRs_ relationships" are treasured.  Nilmandra, can you image how hobbit-concepts of "personal space" must have flummoxed that proud warrior?  Again, to all of you who follow the story and take the effort to express your comments, my deepest thanks.)

Chapter 14:  Night Terrors and Morning Adventures

      The crickets no longer chirped in the dark night of Imladris.  Fall had passed into winter, and the cheerful, familiar song of the crickets had passed with it.  The tired hobbit, wavering between waking and sleep, thought idly that he missed them.  They made their own sort of music.  They reminded him of home, though he hadn't thought about it really, until he could no longer hear them.

      He missed a lot of things, he realized with sudden sharpness, feeling tears prick behind his closed eyelids, and pushed the thought away quickly before he started dwelling on everything he had left behind.  Sighing, he wished he could shake off this grim mood.  Perhaps he was overtired from the day's demands and from their visitors, who had stayed until quite late.  Now sleep was slow in coming.  His arm ached dully and he massaged it carefully with his other hand.  At long last, he passed into a restless doze that gradually deepened into an uneasy slumber.

      Blurred images passed through his subconscious; unresolved and unexpressed anxieties drifting to the surface of his sleeping mind.   He wandered, thoughts touching here and there without taking hold but finally the swirling images steadied and true dreaming began.  Suddenly, shockingly, he heard a scream.  Pippin's scream, or was it his own?  He ran desperately toward the sound that had pierced him like a knife in his heart.  He saw Pippin as he had come running toward him, lying there at the base of the tree, silent and unmoving. 

       He saw with disbelief and horror that a knife quivered in the tweenager's breast.   Red blood poured from the wound, saturating Pippin's clothes, running down his sides, spreading on the ground in an ever-widening pool.  It was impossible that there should be so much blood.  Only if the knife had pierced Pippin's heart could there be so much, and if that were so … if that were so…  

       Pippin's curly head was thrown back, his green-gold eyes open but unseeing, all light gone from them.  He was dead.  It could not be true.  He could not bear it to be true.  But it was and he was overwhelmed with loss and despair.  No elven healing could bring Pippin back from this.  No elven healing could bring himself back, either.  They were both dead now for how could he live after this? Why should he want to, or deserve to?   He had caused this to come to pass.  Pippin would not be here, would not be dead if he had just been firm enough and refused to let him come on this ill-fated journey.  He hadn't tried hard enough to make him stay behind.  He should have tried harder.

      It was his fault.  He was responsible for his cousin – for both his cousins.  And for Sam, too.  Now he saw Paladin crouched beside the body of his only son.  The elder hobbit rose to point a shaking finger at him, his grief-stricken face accusing and disbelieving.  Red tears rolled from Paladin's eyes.  "You were supposed to take care of him!  You are older and supposedly wiser, and were to guard him from harm!  _How could you let this happen to him?"_

Pippin's mother, Eglantine, cradled her dead child, her youngest babe, rocking him gently to and fro.  Red tears poured from her eyes too, and from the eyes of Pippin's sisters, suddenly standing behind their grieving mother.  None of them would look at him.  It _was his fault.  He knew it was.  He did not need Paladin's accusation or Eglantine's grief to tell him that.  Pippin had been their only son, the heir to the Thain.  There was no heir now.  All the Shire would suffer because of his failure.  Pippin was dead because he had failed…  The Quest too would fail because of him, if he could not even keep this one small cousin safe.  He was sure of it - it would fail because he had already failed at this and then there would be no Shire … all his fault … all his…_

      "Wake up!"  Someone was shaking him.  "Wake up, you silly hobbit!" 

      He heard someone weeping and realized that it was himself.  He struggled to escape the bonds that held him imprisoned in the nightmare; it was like he had fallen into deep water, the weight of it holding him down and seeking to keep him there forever in the darkness of his despair.

    "Wake up," the familiar and much-loved voice demanded.  "Merry, wake _up!"_

     Merry dragged his eyes open to stare into the frightened eyes of Pippin less than two inches from his nose.  A gasp of relief and joy and disbelief burst from him.  It had seemed so _real_.

      Seeing his elder cousin's eyes open at last, Pippin gave him one more shake for good measure then hugged him, crowding up onto Merry's bed.  "Silly hobbit," he whispered, "what are you crying about, Merry dear?"    Merry raised his hands to swipe at the tears seeping from his eyes.  Sobs still shook him and desperately he tried to rule himself so as not to wake the Man.  A quick glance at Boromir's bed showed him the soldier slept on, apparently undisturbed by Merry's terror.

       "I…" Merry tried, "I … I had a bad dream, Pip."  His breath ran out and he stopped and gulped, shaking with tremors that seemed to tear right through him.  

      "Did you, then?" Pippin asked, the question not really a question.  "Want to tell me about it?"

      _"No!" Pippin drew back, startled by his cousin's vehemence.  "No," whispered Merry again, struggling for self-possession.  "Keep your voice down or you'll wake Boromir.  It was just a dream, Pippin.  I hardly remember it, now," he lied clumsily. _

      Unconvinced, Pippin tried to stare into his eyes and Merry looked away slightly, grateful for the semi-darkness that enveloped the quiet room.   He could not share these fears, this guilt, with Pippin.  Whether or not Pip believed him, thankfully the tweenager decided to let it rest.  For now, anyway.  Pip was too persistent and loved Merry too much to let this go completely.  "Shall I get you a drink of water?  I hid a chocolate to eat later, but you can have it, Merry.  I think Lord Elrond has them sent all the way from Dale."  

      Merry shuddered; his stomach definitely could not handle any more sweets. After that hideous dream, the thought made him feel ill.  "No thank you, Pip.  I'm fine, truly.  It was just a bad dream.  It's gone now."  He smiled reassuringly, aware that he was still trembling slightly.

      Pippin nodded doubtfully.  He started to ease himself off Merry's bed but his cousin's arms wrapped around him desperately and pulled him alongside. "No!" Merry gasped, then relaxed his hold slightly.  "I mean … you are here now, you may as well stay.  It will be warmer."

     Pippin gave him a look that told his cousin he wasn't the least bit fooled, but wiggled under the blankets gratefully.  "Silly hobbit," he scolded with a yawn.  "Go back to sleep.  And no more bad dreams, hear me?"

      Shadowed in the darkness, Boromir relaxed slowly.  He had awakened at the halfling's first whimper, his warrior's senses alerted by the unfamiliar sound of distress.  Though instantly alert, he had lain indecisive as Meriadoc cried out and thrashed in his sleep, the tears streaming down his face just visible in the low light of the cold moonbeams that slanted in through the windows.  He had just resolved to awaken the little one from whatever terror held him in thrall when Peregrin rolled over with a snort, raising himself up on his arms to stare across at his cousin then padded silently over to the other's bed.  He had heard their whispered exchange despite their attempts to avoid disturbing him, and listened as Pippin comforted a distraught Merry.

      With a sudden pang, he realized he envied these small folk, these seemingly weak, vulnerable creatures.  Such assumptions in regard to their kind were deceptive.  Their strength lay not in arms, in mighty feats of battle.  Their strength was in each other.  In their love for each other, and for their homeland, and for their close-knit families.  Feigning sleep so as to spare Merry any embarrassment, the man lay awake long after the little ones had drifted back into slumber, thinking on the many different kinds of strength that there truly were.

* * * * *

      Boromir was careful to give the halflings no sign that he had overheard them in the morning.  Merry was still upset; his eyes sought out his younger cousin, followed Pippin's every move.  Pippin bore this with some confusion, but sensing his cousin's unease, stayed close so as not to cause him any further distress. Having bore witness to Merry's understandable reactions to the unfortunate accident with the knife and watching Merry unable to tear his eyes from Pippin this morning, Boromir had no doubt as to what had caused the elder hobbit's terrifying nightmare.  Both were unnaturally silent during morning ablutions and breakfast.  The soldier was surprised to discover he missed their cheerful, constant chatter.  Pippin did not even press him for an "unsuitable story," clearly worried at the way Merry was picking at his food in what even Boromir recognized was a most un-hobbitlike manner.

       Watching the older cousin's eyes begin to turn inward, Boromir decided upon a strategy.  "As we all seem much better today," he commented, pleased to see the small faces immediately fasten upon him with interest, "would you like to get in some sword-practice?"

       "Our practice-swords are in the armory," Merry said regretfully. 

       "And our real swords are in our own room," added Pippin.  "I could fetch them, if you like."

      "We are not quite ready to practice with real blades," said Boromir hastily, thinking of Lord Elrond's reaction should he allow them such.  "I was thinking that we could improvise.  Improvisation, after all, is a very important ability for a warrior to possess. "

       So it was that Elrond, admitting himself into the room when his soft knocks went unanswered, found himself privy to the sight of two jubilant young halflings still in their nightshirts backing a large, laughing Man into a corner.  Pippin was menacing him with the business end of a mop while Merry brandished a curved stick borrowed from one of the garden's lattices.  Tendrils of vine and flowers still clung to it.  

       The two were taking shameless advantage of the warrior's care not to harm them, landing solid thumps of their own with mop and stick.  Boromir was defending himself with a small side table that he held by one leg, holding them off as a tamer of giant cats from the Far South thwarts his beasts.  It was an ineffectual battle at best, but all three combatants looked to be enjoying themselves hugely.

      "Ahem," coughed the Elf-lord politely when his entrance went unnoticed.  "Ahem.  _Ahem!"_

      Three faces turned towards him and flushed an identical shade of red.  One last hysterical giggle burst from Pippin before he could stifle it, and Merry was biting his lower lip holding in his own laughter.  Hiding his amusement, Elrond gathered the shreds of his famed serenity about himself and addressed them.  "These seem to be unnecessary," he stated dryly, indicating the three doses of tonic on the tray he carried.  "I pronounce you all recovered.  Meriadoc and Peregrin, you have my leave to return to your own quarters.  Lord Boromir, my thanks for allowing them to recuperate with you.  I trust they were not too much of an inconvenience?"  He looked at the warrior with a raised eyebrow**, **the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

      Boromir's flush deepened slightly at this gentle jibe.  He lowered the side table and bowed slightly.  "Not at all, my lord.  We were just … just…"

      "Yes," Elrond returned.  "Perhaps you would prefer second breakfast to breaking up my furniture." 

     Less embarrassed than the Man at being caught in their play, the hobbits were already scrambling into their clothes.  "Come _on_, Boromir," said Pippin impatiently.  The Elf-lord could not but laugh to himself as the two halflings towed the Man out the door, his elven hearing catching Boromir's confused query about "…second breakfast?" 

       Elrond's next stop was the Ringbearer's room.  Two phials had replaced the three on the tray, the darker rose-colored one meant for Frodo.  Elrond frowned at it thoughtfully, then added a few more drops of a bitter-smelling liquid from a tiny stoppered bottle which he returned to his robes.  The Elf-lord's time of dosing the hobbit with strengthening cordials was coming to an end, and Elrond meant for him to be as strong as he could be when he left Imladris. 

       Sam answered the door immediately and greeted the Master of Rivendell with a bow and a delighted smile, as pleased to see the Elf-lord as if he and Gandalf and Legolas and Gimli had not stayed so late the night before.  "He's still sleeping, my lord.  Not an early riser, Mr. Frodo."  Sam regarded the tray with resignation.  "Shall I wake him, sir?"

       "No, Samwise.  Let him sleep.  But when he wakes, he must drink the cordial.  This one is for you."

        Sam nodded and dutifully downed his with a grimace and a "Thank you, my lord."  

       "I have released Meriadoc and Peregrin," Elrond continued, "so no doubt you will be seeing them as soon as they break their fast … again.  You also," and Sam felt a gentle hand turn his head side to side while Elrond stared deep into his eyes, "seem quite recovered."  Sam nodded again – he was rarely ill and always got better quickly.  

       "I wish to examine your master when he wakes.  Have him drink his tonic and eat, then send for me."

       "I will, my lord."

       It was Elrond's turn to nod.  "Thank you.  I believe Aragorn wishes to take you all upon an extended camping trip … a "walking-party" as I have heard Bilbo use the term.  Perhaps that will encourage Frodo to eat."

       Sam's round face lit with enthusiasm.  "Aye, sir, that'll do it.  Mr. Frodo's been wanting to see more of Rivendell an' the country hereabouts."

* * * * *

       A few hours later, Aragorn drew in a deep breath of the pine-scented air and felt his heart lift in response.  It was good to be 'Strider' again, if even for a short time.  'Strider' did not carry the cares and woes and fears that Aragorn did.  His old, worn clothes and patched cloak surpassed all the silks and velvets of Elrond's House in comfort.  

       It was also good to be accompanied by four happy hobbits.  He felt absurdly pleased to be on the road again, the five of them, as they had been after leaving Bree.  Only this time, without the fear of pursuit or ambush.  The little folk were delighted at the chance to explore and the Ranger allowed them free rein.  The two younger ones were expending much energy investigating every crevice and viewpoint, exclaiming over each scenic wonder and calling to each other and to Frodo and Sam and Strider himself to "…come and see!" 

       Sam was enchanted with the old-growth trees, many that had been ancient before the first hobbits had crossed into Eriador.  Unfamiliar plants filled his pack and pockets, leaves and blossoms to be examined and asked about later.  Frodo walked beside Aragorn more quietly, but his morning glory eyes drank in the beauty of Imladris with pleasure, and Aragorn could tell that he too, was glad to be free of the constraints of the House for a while.

       Aragorn carried most of what supplies he had allowed them and Sam carried his treasured cooking pots but little else.  The four hobbits had been shocked beyond measure when the Ranger had refused to allow them to fill their packs with food – which normally made up the great majority of supplies for a walking-party, he was informed.  

       "The purpose of this exercise," he told the four indignant faces, "is to not only enjoy a nice walk but to hone our survival skills.  So we will not take much food.  We will hunt and gather our dinners, and I expect you to support yourselves.  And me.  As Pippin has become quite proficient in setting snares, I expect to eat well."  Pippin puffed himself up and bounced on his toes, glancing at the others to make certain they had heard.

       "Can we at least take Bill?" Frodo protested.  "Surely the pony needs to get used to walking again also."

       "And we could eat him if we get too hungry," said Pippin.  "Just joking, Sam!" he added hurriedly when the stocky hobbit swung around, disbelieving horror on his face.  "Can't we have any fun?" Pippin whispered to Merry.  "It is going to take a great deal of work to feed all of you.  You are lucky I'm along."  

       "Hush!" his cousin had replied.

       "I wish Boromir would come," Pippin hissed back, undaunted.  "We could get him to feed us."

       "Pippin, be quiet!  Aragorn will hear you!"  

       The hobbits carried their bedrolls and a change of clothing, their flints and pipes and pipe-weed, a few personal items and their swords.  In addition to his pack and weapons, Aragorn carried a hobbit-specific medical kit and several more doses of tonic for Frodo, which he had somehow neglected to mention to the hobbit.   Elrond had drawn him aside in the courtyard as the hobbits shouldered their packs, handing him the small padded case of stoppered medicines.  "Make certain that Frodo does not over-exert himself," his foster father had told Aragorn quietly.  "He and the other halflings have had no sustained exercise since their arrival here.  They need to ease back into long walking and carrying their packs."

      "I will care for them, Elrond."

      "And for yourself."  Elrond was quiet for a moment, grey eyes distant.  "Keep them out for several days, Estel.  I have some things I wish to accomplish here without the interference of curious hobbits."  He did not elaborate. The Elf-lord put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, a rare gesture of affection.  "Be careful, my son."

      The Ranger's attention was returned to the hobbit walking beside him when Frodo abruptly threw back his head and laughed, his so-blue eyes sparkling.  Seeing Aragorn's eyes upon him, Frodo smiled.  "It is good to be alive," the Ringbearer explained softly.

       "On this of all days," agreed Aragorn, as the shifting breeze brought to them the scents of the woodlands and the sweet smell of decaying leaves.   The hobbits shuffled their feet in the soft earth, enjoying the feel of cool grass against their bare soles.

       "Where are we going, sir?" asked Sam from Frodo's left.

       "There is a place I think you would enjoy seeing, Sam.  A most special place."

       "South?" Sam pursued when Aragorn did not explain further.

       The Ranger nodded, teasing the hobbit and enjoying it.  "The north road is still closed due to the landslide.  The west road you have seen.  The east road … well, we are not ready to take the east road yet."  Aragorn raised his eyes to the narrow path that led out of Imladris towards Mordor, twisting around the steep mountains until it was lost to sight.  He noticed that Frodo had followed his gaze, a shadow now in his eyes, and sought to distract the Ringbearer.

       "The south road, however, is one well-traveled by Elrond's folk.  And at the end of it … is a marvel beyond words."

      "What?" asked Frodo, knowing full well they were being teased but unable to stifle his inquisitiveness.  "What is it?"

      "That," replied Aragorn with irritating smugness "is for me to know and you to find out." 

* TBC *


	15. New Horizons

(Author's Note:  Again, my thanks to Marigold for the beta-reading, scene expansions and general corrections. Coriandra, TTTurtle, Gentle Hobbit, smalldiver, shirebound and Midgette, you all fell for what I call the 'Baylor fake-out.'  Read her brilliant "I Always Know You" to see what I mean.  Baylor and Marigold, thank you for the inspiration. Ariel, Marigold and I crowed in delight at your review. Azaelia, Firnsarnien and Firiel, how interesting to see which people fixate on the upcoming 'marvel.'  I'm sure there are comments on your personalities in there someplace!  Endymion, thank you for your concern; I just have been enormously busy.  In part due to a huge, absorbing _LotRs_ writing project.  Arabella throne, there are too many of those fics out there.  Boromir was a honorable man.   Tathar, did you really say 'a peaceful walk'?  You know me better than that!  And Elwen, you _knew_ that wasn't going to last.  LilyBaggins, can't you see the harried relief in Elrond's eyes?  Shireling, you've got my number… Childofchild, I think you are right.  To me, Boromir grew to love the hobbits, but he never thought of them as equals.  Scooter, thank you.  Aratlithiel, I 'can't be trusted!'  I would like to be offended, but you have my number, too.  Rebecca, thank you for your review; it is when people tell me that a story of mine helped lure them from 'lurker-world,' that I think it is worth all the work.  Kit, I had this mental flash of Aragorn and the hobbits trouping gaily along when you said, "lead on!"  QTPie-2488, 'Yikes?'  I think I am developing a reputation.  Bookworm2000, it is interesting to read that you feel physical pain in dreams, too.  What does that signify?  Kay, all God's creatures have their place but it isn't in your flower garden!  My thanks to all of you, and thank you for your thoughtful, insightful comments.)    

Chapter 15:  New Horizons

       It was a humbling experience for the hobbits, that first day's walk.  All four had been blithely confident of their ability to keep up with the long-limbed Ranger, especially with their packs practically empty.  Aragorn set a meandering pace for them at first, allowing them to explore and delight in the changing foliage of the trees and the crisp air, the elven valley just now beginning to hint of the winter that lay heavily upon the rest of this part of the world.  Then, subtly, he began to push them.  Merry and Pippin stopped their wide ranging and fell into line, and Frodo and Sam ceased their conversation to save their breath for marching.  Finally even the younger hobbits attempts at singing one of Bilbo's walking songs gave out as they found they needed their breath just to keep the pace. 

      "Why … why must we hurry so, Aragorn?" panted Pippin.

      "We must be at a certain place at a certain time," replied the Ranger, glancing down at the struggling hobbit.

      "Why?"

      Aragorn noticed Frodo inching up in the hopes that Pippin's question would be answered.  "To see a wondrous rare sight," he explained.

      "What?"

      "When we get there, Pippin, you will see."  Aragorn laughed when Frodo muttered something under his breath.  Pippin looked over at him, confused and curious.  "I would not answer Frodo's questions, either, Pippin.  All I will say is that if we are late, we will miss it."

      "Miss _what?" asked Frodo and Pippin together.  Sam was listening closely, while Merry was busily searching his memory and overheard conversations for clues. _

       "I will say no more.  Besides, it is time we stopped for tea."  As he had hoped, that subject immediately diverted the hobbits.  They quickly selected a small grassy knoll near to a brook, a small tributary of one of the lesser rivers that branched from the great Bruinen and protected the valley.  Sam eyed the water with distrust, though he could easily have leaped across it.

      Aragorn sat back at his ease while the hobbits prepared the meal.  Pippin laid out a ground cloth and Sam unpacked their travel food while Merry and Frodo gathered firewood and started a small blaze.  It was all done within minutes, especially Sam's task.  Aragorn stifled a laugh when four indignant faces turned to him.  "Well?" he asked gently.

      Surprisingly, it was Samwise who spoke first.  "There's not enough here 'ta feed a mouse!"  Four sets of unhappy eyes stared at the salted meat and dried apple rings and hard-rimed cheeses that Sam had kept ready in his and his master's packs, as Gandalf had instructed when fleeing Rivendell looked to be a possibility.  He'd then offered to help Mr. Merry and Master Pippin lay out their supplies, and they had looked at him, aghast.  The two had obeyed Aragorn's instructions and brought no food (though Pippin had snuck several boiled sweets and pieces of toffee into his pockets).  Every bite they had would not satisfy even two hungry hobbits, much less four (one a perpetually hungry tweenager) and a Man.

       Aragorn pulled himself more upright, and his smile faded.  "Lesson number one.  From now on, we live off the land.  Pippin, I would like you to teach Frodo and Merry to set snares.  Sam, I daresay you know something of harvesting wild plants and herbs?"  Sam nodded cautiously.   "Good.  Please teach your master and his cousins to recognize and prepare them while we are on this expedition.  Frodo and Merry, both of you have fished, haven't you?"

       The two cousins exchanged a glance, not liking the direction this was taking.  "Yes," Frodo began, "We all have … but -"

       "Good.  An hour should be sufficient for you to prepare the meal, then?"

      "Aragorn," objected Merry.

      "It is more than likely that there will come a time upon our Quest that your survival will depend on you and you alone.  Show me that you can survive without me.  When I know what you can already do, I will show you even more about how to harvest the bounty of the Wild.  There is food all around us.  You have only to know how and where to find it."

       The hobbits looked about them doubtfully.  "There's some blackberry bushes over there," Pippin said, pointing.  "It's too late in the year for them in the Shire, but the weather is a lot milder here. Maybe there is still some ripe fruit on them." 

       "I see some marsh grass at the edge o' the meadow," contributed Sam.  "Stewed marsh grass makes a fine greens dish."

       "Well done," praised Aragorn.  "Pippin, since you saw the bushes, you have the honor of battling the thorns.  I will be the one to teach Frodo and Merry to set snares while you two gather our tea."

* * * * *

       _"Ouch!"_

       "Careful, Merry.  Those wires are sharp."  After watching Frodo favor his left shoulder and seeing Merry rub his bandaged and splinted arm, the Ranger had decided to be the one to teach the two snare setting for another reason than to simply allow Sam and Pippin to pursue their food-gathering assignments.  Both cousins had taken an injury that affected their strength and dexterity, and the Ranger wanted to evaluate them.  Frodo and Merry caught on quickly, but as he had feared, they had difficulty stretching and setting the snares.  Merry's wrist would strengthen with time and the proper exercises but Aragorn feared that Frodo might never have the force in his shoulder required to pull the wires taut. 

         Because of their injuries, the man allowed each to help the other, requiring that they both understand how to build the traps even if they could not set them alone yet.  At last Frodo leaned back and wiped the perspiration from his brow.  "How is that?" he asked.

       Aragorn groped beside him and closed his hand upon a long stick.  He tapped the end carefully over the leaves the hobbits had scattered over the wires.  _Snap!  He grinned at the two tired cousins.  "Excellent."_

      "But it does not help us now," grimaced Merry.  "Seeking a rabbit-path and setting the snares could take an hour, and it might not be dusk until they come out.  I'm hungry _now_."

       "I am as well," said Frodo, then added indignantly, "Aragorn, there isn't enough here for a decent tea!  Surely you do not mean us to starve until dinner?  We won't have the strength to walk.  We shall be too weak to walk to this wondrous marvel that you refuse to tell us what it is!" 

       "I think you exaggerate your hunger-induced feebleness, Frodo," the Ranger said with a smile.  "But I dare not put you to the test as Elrond would have my head.  I should require you to go hunting with your slings … but you both have used those arms enough for today.   You have done well and deserve a rest.  I will bring down some game with my bow."  With that the Ranger strung his great bow and walked off into the forest with a stride nearly as silent as a hobbit's.

       Frodo lay down and drew up his knees, digging his toes into the grassy swath.  He pushed back his cloak and began to rub his shoulder.

         "Does your shoulder hurt, Frodo?" Merry asked, seeing him do so.

       "A little," his cousin admitted.  "More than a little, actually.  How is your arm?"

       "It hurts, too."  Merry remained seated, his arms around his knees.  "As much as I dislike admitting it, Cousin, Aragorn is right."

       "How so?"

       Merry was quiet for a moment.  "We are going to have to depend on the Big Folk to take care of us.  Not just to defend us, but to hunt for us and take _care of us.  We haven't a chance of completing this Quest without them."_

       Hearing the distress in his cousin's voice, Frodo propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Merry.  He grinned weakly.  "Don't worry about it, Merry.  We haven't much of a chance of completing it _with_ them, either."

       Merry sighed and lay down next to Frodo, angling himself to use his cousin's midsection as a pillow.  "I can always count on you to cheer me up."  He sighed again, deeply and regretfully.  "It's a good thing we didn't bring Bill.  Roasted haunch of pony sounds delicious right now."

       "Sam would … never forgive you," responded Frodo, his voice slowing to a sleepy drawl.  Two more breaths and he was asleep.  Merry yawned; his nightmare the previous evening had kept him from sleeping well for the remainder of the night.  His eyelids fluttered shut and he soon followed his cousin's example.

       He had barely nodded off when a loud, aggravated voice proclaimed, "Well, _this is a fine sight!  I get scratched and pricked and bleeding, and here you two are taking a nap!"_

* * * * *

        Several plump pheasants, stewed greens, the packed-in food and blackberries comprised tea.  Most unexpected but welcome was Pippin's harvest of a small stand of mushrooms, which Aragorn insisted on examining carefully before allowing them to be added to the menu.  Pippin rolled his eyes at Sam behind the Ranger's back; hobbits had been hunting and eating mushrooms for eternity.  Sam glowered back forbiddingly, arms crossed, silently reprimanding the tweenager for questioning Aragorn's judgment.  Pippin subsided with a mumbled complaint. 

       All in all, not a bad effort, Aragorn decided.  He could teach the hobbits nothing in plucking, cleaning and roasting a game bird, and Sam was certainly a better camp-cook than he ever would be.  The gardener even managed to locate wild rosemary and thyme, and the roasted pheasant Aragorn was presently gnawing on would equal any served at Elrond's table.  Smearing grease into his beard with another bite, he met Sam's gaze with a wide grin and a salute, and the stocky hobbit blushed, a diffident smile on his round face.

      Frodo was more vocal.  "Oh, Sam, this is wonderful."

      Merry swallowed and added his congratulations.  "Though we might get tired of the same fare after several days.  What else are you going to teach us, Aragorn?"

      "There is little I can teach you in finding and preparing the foods you already know of, I think," the Ranger said after a moment of consideration.  "Therefore we will concentrate on finding and preparing the foods you don't know.  Roots, bulbs, leaves and flowers…" he noticed he had Sam's complete attention.  "Many have medicinal purposes, also."  Merry nodded, listening carefully.

     "What flowers?" asked Sam eagerly.

     "You know jacks-in-the-pulpits, Sam?"

     "Of course."  Sam was somewhat offended.  "Got a load of 'em in Bag End's garden.  But you can't eat those.  They burn the mouth, they do."

      Aragorn smiled at him.   "That burning is caused by crystals growing in the plant's roots.  Drying them or baking them slowly will remove the burning."

      Sam leaned back, unconvinced but willing to consider it.  Aragorn was pleased; hobbits were a provincial folk and such are often resistant to new ideas.  He should have known though, that if it concerned food, the hobbits would be willing to explore new horizons.  The Ranger knew that the Shire was gentle land, generous in providing for its people.  True hunger was almost unknown.  Its folk had rarely had to consider alternative sources of food.  But there might be limits…  "And some types of insects."

      "Insects?" echoed Pippin warily.  The others stopped chewing and stared at the Ranger.

        Aragorn nodded.  "Insects can be very nutritious.  And worms, too."

       "_Worms?"  chokedFrodo, peering with sudden suspicion into his bowl._

      "Yes, Frodo.  Ants, termites, beetles, grubs…"  He rushed on before they could speak.  "Nothing that stings or bites, or is hairy or brightly colored.  No spiders or ticks, flies, mosquitoes.  No midges."  He grinned at them but received only horrified stares in response.  "Beetles and grasshoppers are quite … crunchy … after you cook them.  And remove their legs and wings."  The horrified stares were turning nauseated.  "You can eat most insects raw.  The taste varies from one kind to another.  Wood grubs are bland, while some ants store honey in their bodies, giving them a sweet taste."  He looked hopefully at Pippin, but the young hobbit just looked ill.  "You can grind them into a paste, or mix them with edible vegetation, or -" 

      "I am going to be sick," announced Pippin flatly.

      Serious now, the Ranger met their eyes.  "There may come a time when you will have to eat such things or starve.  A person who ignores an otherwise healthy food source due to a personal bias -"

      _"Personal bias!" hissed Merry in strangled tones._

        "- or because he feels it is unappetizing, is risking his own survival."  Aragorn glared at them and there was no compromise now on his stern face.  He turned to the smallest hobbit.  "Pippin, if you were starving and only by eating worms could you muster enough strength to protect the Ringbearer, would you do so?"

       Pippin opened his mouth, looking rather like a stranded fish.  "Strider, that's not fair!"

       "Would you?"

        Pippin ground his teeth together and looked to Merry, but found no help there.  Merry's face was strained, blue eyes intent.  Frodo had gone white and still, neither condemnation nor encouragement on his features.  Sam was staring fixedly at his bowl, scowling, his face red.  Suddenly, Pippin felt an overwhelming fear for his gentle, scholarly cousin.

        "Pippin?" Aragorn pressed.

      "I will do whatever I have to, to keep Frodo safe," the tweenager declared steadily and unequivocally.  Pippin saw Frodo's eyes suddenly brim with tears, and one broke free and ran down his cheek.  He put down his half-finished meal and stumbled to his feet.

       "Excuse me," Frodo murmured faintly.  "I … I need a little … air.  No, Sam, finish your meal.  I'll … only be a moment."

       Merry inched over and slid an arm around Pippin, startled to feel him trembling despite the strength he had heard in the lad's voice.  "I'm not having a good time anymore, Merry," Pippin whispered miserably.

      The rest of tea was concluded in silence.   Aragorn regretted dimming the bright day for them – but neither would he have them unprepared for the realities they might well have to face.  They still had many miles to walk before they could stop for dinner and set up camp.  He helped Sam wash up while Merry and Pippin packed up the (very few) leftovers and bowls and spoons and ground cloth.  Then they sat and waited for Frodo.  And waited.  After a quarter-hour, Aragorn rose to his feet and began to pace.  Twice he started into the woods then stopped himself, respectful of the Ringbearer's privacy.  The late afternoon shadows began to lengthen into darkness.  Frodo did not return. 

* TBC * 


	16. Clouded Horizons

(Author's Note:  My thanks – truly - to Marigold for scoldings and encouragements and requests for clarifications.  Coriandra, you are right, of course, and this chapter answers your question.  Tetshira, I tried to email you back to thank you for the note but got one of those "undeliverable" messages.  That was very nice of you to do that.  Aratlithiel, you shouldn't feel guilty, but I am glad the emotion of the scene came through.  Distortion, thank you again for the email and I hope everything turned out well for you?  Bookworm2000, forgive me, I meant to tell you that _Peter and the Wolf_ is one of my favorites, too.  Firnsarnien, to answer your question on 'the marvel,' it is big sometimes, it is small sometimes and it is not at all sometimes.  [That ought to push you right over the edge.]  Baylor, I've had more fun researching survival foods, in addition to what I learned on many, many hunting trips.  The _really_ disgusting things I've stayed away from.  Kay and A Elbereth, thank you for keeping at it.  FF.Net seems to be okay now … let's pray it stays that way.  Shirebound, I know what you mean about "frustrating"- I must have checked FF.Net ten times a day trying to post new chapters and look for updates.  [Which probably didn't help, I admit.]   And my thanks to Marigold, who corrects, encourages, improves, and cracks the whip.  Everyone, thank you for riding out FF.Net's recent conniptions and staying with this story.)

Chapter 16:  Clouded Horizons 

      "Something is wrong," grated Aragorn.  The Ranger spun on his heel and gathered up his pack, barking at the hobbits to get ready to travel.  Sam started spading earth onto the fire and Merry and Pippin fumbled on their waiting packs.  "Frodo would never be gone so long.  He is in trouble."

      Pippin reached up and tugged on Aragorn's leather coat.  "Wouldn't it be faster if you went and searched for him alone?" the tweenager asked anxiously.  "We will slow you."

      "No," replied the Ranger after a moment's thought.  "I do not want us to be separated.  If something out there has delayed or injured Frodo, I do not want to give it the opportunity to wreak more havoc."  He did not say it, but there was always the chance that whatever had delayed Frodo might also be a danger to the other halflings.  Despite the fact that he had not voiced his fear aloud, he noted Merry moved unobtrusively a bit nearer to Pippin. 

      "Injured him?" echoed Sam worriedly, tucking the small trowel back into his pack.  He shrugged it on then picked up his master's.  "What would do that?  Wouldn't Lord Elrond have warned us if he sensed anything evil hereabouts?"

      "If it was wholly a thing of evil, Sam," replied the Ranger thoughtfully.  "My lord can certainly sense creatures like Black Riders on his lands.  Possibly orcs, if there are several.  But not men or other ill-intentioned folk that somehow managed to find one of the concealed paths hither." Then he smiled in an effort to allay the growing apprehension on the faces of his young friends.  "It is always possible Frodo has fallen into a ditch, too.  Our Master Baggins has in the past shown a remarkable proclivity for such mishaps."

      Merry sniggered.  "That's probably it.  Or got himself stuck in a tree.   Or tripped over his own two feet."

     Sam bristled at Merry, aggravated but unable to refute the truth of the younger hobbit's words.  "He's just distracted.  You'd be distracted too, Mr. Merry, if you had 'ta carry that wicked thing around your neck day and night."

       Merry's teasing expression was replaced by a contrite one.  "You are right, Sam.  I'm sorry."

      "Come," said Aragorn gently, interrupting the strained silence that had fallen over the hobbits.  "He went into the woods … there.  Follow me, and do not stray."

        Merry resettled his pack and followed.  Pippin came next, with Sam behind him.  Glancing over his shoulder, Aragorn noted wryly that the older hobbits had automatically placed the tweenager between them in the position of greatest safety.  Would that he had been so careful of the Ringbearer's wellbeing.  Frodo's request or no, he should never have allowed his friend to wander into the woods alone.  What could have befallen the hobbit?

      Sternly clamping down on his imagination, Aragorn began using his tracking abilities to trail Frodo.  As he feared and expected, it was not easy.  Hobbits were a light-footed folk and only a displaced leaf or the slight bending of a single twig here and there told of Frodo's passage.  He could not even find a full footprint.  If Frodo had not stopped in one place to kick a pile of autumn leaves, Aragorn might well have taken a wrong turning.  He picked an orange leaf up from where it had come to rest upon a neighboring bush and examined it carefully, but it could tell him nothing.

      A scuffed disturbance farther on told him more.  The Ranger knelt, his attention wholly upon the path.  He was peripherally aware of Sam and Merry and Pippin behind him but they kept back, careful not to confuse the tale the earth had to tell.  Here … Aragorn's heart sank.  A boot print.  Here the imprint of toes digging deep into the turf - Frodo had dodged to the side…  The boots had followed…  The hobbit had slipped on a pile of leaves and gone down.   Much thrashing here … leaves scattered about, a slide in the earth.  The boots had staggered back, off balance.  The hobbit had whirled to run and the boots had recovered and followed … then leaped, clearing the earth for several paces.  A flying tackle, then.  And here … the outline of a small body, crushed into the soil by a larger one.  Broken grass stems and small plants uprooted … a struggle…  And a conclusion.  The Ranger sighed and rose to his feet.  All trace of the smaller body ceased and when the boots steadied again, they pressed into the earth deeper than they had before.  The Ranger stared into the leafy forest and motioned the hobbits forward, his heart sinking with the sun.

      Darkness was falling, the hours of daylight shortened by the deepening winter.  They had tarried too long in preparing their meal and eating it, then waiting while Frodo tried to come to terms with the fact that those he loved were going to suffer hardship and danger because of the commitment he had made.  The lengthening shadows were merging, melding their surroundings into an indistinct panorama of trees and bushes.  The slanting light was just sufficient to illuminate the small glade that opened before them.

      It was a small meadow, the wild grasses kept short by foraging deer.  Though it was winter, parts of the glade were still green, sporting once beautiful flowers now tipped black with frost.  It was almost perfectly round, and in the exact center lay something dark.  Dark, and disturbingly still, thought Aragorn grimly. 

      To the side of them, from the forest's edge, the grass was bent and broken leading to and from the motionless form, the frosted blades cleanly snapped.  Two trails…  One trail was less distinct than the other, as if feet had shuffled more under the weight of a burden.  The other path showed no such smudging; the trail-maker had returned unburdened.  Both trails ended at the same spot at the edge of the glade.  

      The hobbits crowded up near Aragorn, trying to peer past him but the Ranger spread his arms and blocked them.   Pippin pushed at the man's arm and stiffened himself at the quivering tension he felt in the unyielding muscles.  Aragorn stood frozen, seeming not even to breathe as he looked and listened, and tasted the evening breeze like a stag scenting the wind.  

       Sam looked up at the Ranger, suddenly fearful.  "Is it Mr. Frodo?  Let me go to him!"

       Instead of moving forward or aside, Aragon turned and knelt, facing the hobbits.  "It is Frodo," he said softly.  "I see his dark hair.  He is wrapped in his cloak.  But he does not move."

       "Is he asleep?" asked Pippin, perplexed.  The young hobbit inhaled.  _"Fro – " _

Aragorn's hand was across his mouth before he could complete the hail.   The tweenager choked and turned startled eyes on their guide.  "Keep your voices low," the man ordered.  

      "What's wrong?" whispered Pippin and Sam together.

       "Think, both of you," counseled the Ranger quietly, his eyes returning to the motionless figure.  "Look where he lies."

        The hobbits looked at the still form in the exact center of the meadow.   "It's a trap," said Merry flatly.

        Sam gasped and unthinking in his fear for his master would have torn away from the Ranger, but lightening-quick, Aragorn's hand came down on the stocky hobbit's shoulder – hard.  Sam was literally dragged back to the shelter of the trees.  Aragorn shook his head.  "No!"  The Ranger's voice was soft but the authority in it was unmistakable.  "We must assess the situation first.  Do you understand?"  He released Sam's shoulder but his glare was for all of them.  Three curly heads nodded in unwilling unison.

         "It would help immensely to know if Frodo is conscious and bound, or completely unconscious.  He is lying on his side … his back is to us…"  The Ranger was silent, thinking.  Then he grasped the shoulder of the youngest hobbit gently.  "Pippin, can you use your sling to strike Frodo?   Not too hard, just to see if he responds.  His reaction – or lack of it – will tell us where matters stand."

       Pippin nodded eagerly, his small hands already pulling the sling from the pocket of his cloak and loading it from his ever-present bag of smooth round stones.  "I never thought someone would actually _tell me to hit one of my cousins, gently or otherwise!  I'm always being warned I'll be murdered if I were to dare such a thing."  The last was delivered with an eye to his other elder cousin, who was too preoccupied in watching the swaying of every leaf and twig to give it the response it deserved._

       With smooth practiced motions, Pippin readied his cast and let the small stone fly.  Those watching could not see it but a heartbeat later they heard a soft _whack! _and Frodo's cloak indented slightly, just hard enough to get his attention without causing him hurt.  The still form neither moved nor made a sound.

       "Unconscious, then," sighed Aragorn.  "We will have to spread out and encircle the clearing.  Use your ears more than your eyes – those who did this are certainly lying in wait for whoever might come after Frodo. They may be perched in a tree and out of your sight, or perhaps hidden behind a large rock, or in the brush.  Listen and you will hear them breathing before you see them."

       "What then?" asked Merry.  "What if we do find someone?  Do you wish us to draw our swords and engage them?"

       "No, do not do that," replied Aragorn, noting the frustration evident in the hobbit's tone.  "Find them only, then signal me."

       "How, without alerting any others there may be?"

        The Ranger frowned thoughtfully.  "Can all of you imitate a cricket?"

       "In winter?" replied Sam skeptically.

       "I would guess that whoever has done this is not well versed in wood-craft, or they would not position their captive in the direct center of the meadow.  Easy to see, yes, but most unnatural.  But you are right, Sam.  It is better to be cautious.  How about a bird – a thrush perhaps?"

       Three soft thrush trills greeted his query.  Aragorn nodded, impressed at their skill.  "Good.  When you find one, trill."

       Merry had been staring fixedly at his cousin's unmoving form.  "Aragorn, why do this in the first place?  Why not just take Frodo and go?"

       The Ranger had been dreading that question, knowing in all probability that Merry would be the one to think of it.  "It would be my guess," he said slowly, "that whomever was entrusted this task was _not trusted with why Frodo was wanted.  No underlings would be trusted with knowledge of what Frodo carries.  It is far more likely that the order would have been to capture __all of__ the halflings.  Frodo was just unfortunate enough to be the first to fall into their snare."_

       "So we are in danger, too," stated Merry matter-of-factly.  "And so are you so long as you are with us."

       "For every step we take with Frodo.  And so it will remain, until the Quest has been completed." 

       Merry nodded, seeming not at all disconcerted by that pronouncement as far as his own safety went.  But Aragorn saw that his eyes turned towards Pippin and that strained, withdrawn look had returned to his face.  The youngest one was practically vibrating in place, twisting his sling eagerly in his hands.  Sam's expression was grim.

       "Be very careful," the man whispered.  Merry tapped Sam on the shoulder and pointed to the other side of the clearing.  Sam nodded and was gone into the darkening woods without so much as a rustle to mark his going.  Pippin was shifting eagerly from foot to foot and took off before Merry could complete his gesture to the left, halfway between himself and Sam.  Aragorn watched apprehensively as the small forms melted soundlessly into the underbrush, then accepted Merry's point to the right, across from Pippin.  Drawing his long knife, he moved along to his  compass point of the clearing, eyes half closed to better focus his hearing.

       Ranger though he was and listen as he might, he could hear nothing of the hobbits' movements.  He understood why some thought the halflings had magic – their ability to move unseen and unheard was amazing.  It seemed magical to he, himself despite that he knew approximately where they were.  His own stealthiness was born of talent, years of experience in the Wild, and great need.  His passage did not disturb the night-sounds around him, the day world falling to sleep as the night-world was waking.  A rabbit emerged from its burrow and twitched its nose at him.  A flight of sparrows had sought refuge on the branches of an oak tree, tucking their heads under their wings, their sleepy chirpings trailing off.  A fox stared at him, cocking its head sideways, then trotted off on its own business.

        The harsh breathing that came gradually to his ears was jarringly out of place among the gentle sounds of the night.  He froze, eyes shutting completely as he sought to pinpoint the sound.  There, slightly more to the left.  He opened his eyes and in the gray dusk could barely distinguish a large, bulky form kneeling on the forest floor.  A man?  Orc?  Something else?

       The dark figure was turned sideways, trying to keep an eye on both the bait and for the prey it was supposed to attract.  The figure's head swiveled to the left then right in rapid, nervous movements.  It was cloaked, the cowl pulled up over its head, and in its hands was a crossbow, the bolt nocked and ready.  The Ranger felt a surge of anger flash through him.  Such a bolt would likely kill one of the hobbits.  Did these that hunted them have orders to kill, then, or was that bolt meant for him?

       Aragorn snarled under his breath with harsh self-recrimination.  He should have exercised more caution in leaving Elrond's House; he should have known it would be wiser that they depart in secrecy and silence instead of trooping forth carelessly in broad daylight with chattering, singing halflings.  Had he allowed himself to be lulled into complacency by the peace and serenity of Imladris?   What could harm them so close to his foster father's home?  He had been seduced by safety and ease into letting down his guard _once_, and this was the result.    

       The Ranger ghosted closer, feeling with his feet for twigs that might snap before letting his weight down.  Intent on the scene before him, the dark figure he stalked was still.  Five slow, cautious steps.  Four.  Three.  Aragorn reversed the knife and raised its weighted pommel.  Two.  The figure jerked, alerted by some primal sense.  Instead of shouting an alarm, the figure tried to whirl and face the soundless shadow that had coalesced out of the dim light.  A mistake.  Without a moment's hesitation, Aragorn brought down the weighted knife on the figure's cowl and caught the unconscious form before it could crash to the earth.

       The Ranger eased the limp form down and laid it on its back.  The crossbow he recovered from where it had fallen and removed the bolt, returning it to its fellows in its quiver, which he slung on his back alongside his own.    The bow itself he laid out of reach.  Then he searched the still form and relieved it of a sword and two knives.  Only then did he push back the cowl, and behold the coarse features of an unknown man.

       So those that hunted them were human.  One, anyway.  Even as he wondered how many more of the enemy there were, a thrush trilled to his right.  Near and to the right … that would be Sam.  With a last check of the unconscious figure, Aragorn rose and padded in the direction of the call.  It came again as he neared and he stopped, knowing that the hobbit had spotted him.  He could make out no small form among the hummocks and bushes.  But a moment later he felt a small hand fasten on his wrist and he looked down to see a light-colored curly head.

       He crouched down and Sam nodded, pointed ahead of them then held up two fingers.  The Ranger followed where the hobbit pointed and saw two large dark figures, crouched a few yards apart.  How to get them both without alarming any others that might be out there?  Another tug on his coat directed his eyes downward.  With a vicious expression on his usually amiable face, Sam held up one of his frying pans and pointed to one of the men.  Aragorn stifled a grin and nodded.  He leaned down and breathed into Sam's ear, "On the count of three." Then he found himself alone.  

       They would have to coordinate the timing of this.  Aragorn drifted silently up behind his target, grateful that the two were made confident by the other's presence and did not keep as sharp a lookout as the single man he had downed moments ago.  He stopped several feet behind the crouching figure and looked for Sam.  He saw and heard nothing until the first stars glinted momentarily on the silhouette of a small head.   He pursed his lips and a nightingale called in the night.  Once it called, then twice.  The third time it called, it was interrupted by a _Wham!_

      Aragorn caught his man and eased him down, but Sam could not so manage a figure almost twice his size.  The man fell heavily into the thick underbrush, the rattling and rustling of his fall seeming to echo throughout the clearing.  For a moment, everything was absolutely silent.  Then all heard a soft voice whisper, "Bran?  Powell?" 

       Sam gasped, and only then was Aragorn aware the hobbit had returned to his side.  The voice came again, to their right, perhaps a quarter of the way.  Pippin's quadrant.  The voice was hoarse, distorted by the effort to keep quiet.  "Bran!  What was that?  Answer me!"

       Aragorn sucked in a breath.  "What?" he hissed back harshly.

       The disembodied voice was silent.  Then, uncertainly, "Powell?"

       "What?" repeated Aragorn, trying to locate the fourth man in the dark.

       There was no answer.  Then a voice came clearly, "I don't know who you are or what you've done with Powell and Bran.  But I have a crossbow.  And unless you show yourself this instant, I will shoot the halfling."

* TBC *


	17. Springing the Trap

(Author's Note:  Tavion, thank you, for both you and your friend.  Baylor, please use the bird-calls!  Use anything you like, as long as I get to read it!  Fiona, I am glad you are enjoying the story so much.  Tathar, 'a break for Frodo' – such a novel idea.  TTTurtle, what a nice thing to say.  Now I will have to work even harder to live up to your expectations.  BellaMonte – so good to hear from you!  I shot over to FF.Net and saw two new chapters of "Treasures"!  Thank you for the kind words in your A/N – reviews to follow!  Shireling, your wish is granted in Chapter 20.  Fionarox, 'the stuff of legends?'  You inspire me to greater heights.  Coriandra, thank you for taking the cliffhangers in such good spirit.  Endymion, yes, they are heading there, after some more gentle teasing from Aragorn.  And you raised a good point on the word 'favor.'  Usage depends on context – to favor an injury means to spare it; to _show_ favor means to show preference.  Elwen, thank you.  LilyBaggins, if you don't finish _ALA,_ I am going to picket your house.  A Elbereth, no need to excuse you – your comments show an active imagination as well as intelligent curiosity.  Aratlithiel, you will enjoy Pip's upcoming exploit.  GirlofRing, your comment made me laugh.  Ariel, if there _is_ a 12-step program, I would be too embarrassed to attend.  Distortion, congratulations on your "B" – better than I ever did in math!  QTPie-2488, writing the relationship between Pip and Merry is one of my favorite things.  Gentle Hobbit, I've enjoyed introducing the hobbits to 'Ranger food' - I think they'd rather starve.  Shirebound, all the work is worth it when someone I respect so much tells me she enjoys it.  Midgette, yes!  What fun!  Lady Eleclya, don't you love all the tidbits the Professor gave us to build upon?  Marigold, thank you for ratcheting up the angst factor and making this a better chapter.   I whine about being made to work, but I appreciate it.  To all of you, my thanks for your encouragement and support.)  

Chapter 17:  Springing the Trap

     "No!  No!  Don't you hurt him!"

     "Pippin!  Stay back!"  Aragorn swiveled in place to locate the cry.  His shout rang out after simultaneous cries of fear and rage from Meriadoc and Samwise at the unseen man's words.  The youngest hobbit appeared briefly at the far edge of the clearing then was dragged back bodily into the bushes.  Amidst thrashing sounds, Aragorn could make out Pippin's voice, "No!  Let me go!  Let me go!"  The Ranger could only hope it was his older cousin that he struggled with and not another one of these men who had struck down Frodo.

        Pippin's impetuous advance had caused the owner of the unseen voice to rock forward, betraying his location by rustling leaves and quivering branches.  For the briefest of moments Aragorn saw the obscuring shadow of dark cloak and thick hands encircling a loaded crossbow.  The man's threat was not empty.

      The man's attention was on the furious altercation taking place in the bushes lining the clearing; thrashing shrubbery and flashes of indistinguishable movement and stifled hobbit-shouts. The stars were brightening but it was yet too dark to distinguish what was happening.  Aragorn took advantage of the diversion to steal a few crouching paces closer to the man.  Sam came after him, sword drawn, his other hand tight on the frying pan and murder on his face.

       The man suddenly remembered the threat on his other side and whirled back around.  Both stalkers froze.  "You there," the man called again.  "I will shoot the halfling if you do not come out this instant.  _Now!  Or he dies!"  The man turned back to the clearing and raised the bow, sighting along its length, his finger already on the trigger._

       Aragorn could not risk this.  Hastily he stood, his knife held far from his body.   Peripherally, he was aware that Sam had disappeared from his side.  The man saw Aragorn immediately and now the deadly crossbow was aimed at his heart.

"Come out!" snarled the man.  "Come out where I can see you plain."  The Ranger took an unwilling step into the meadow, reluctant to abandon the shelter of the forest.  "Closer," hissed the man.  "Away from the trees."  Another slow, dragging step.  

       The thrashing noises abruptly stopped, which pulled the man's attention back to the clearing.  There was an outraged squawk, which Aragorn had heard numerous times before and recognized as resulting from the removal of an elder cousin's hand from a younger cousin's mouth. 

      When the complaint was not repeated, the man's attention turned back to Aragorn.  "Drop the knife," he snarled.

      Aragorn's hand tightened on the hilt and for one swift second, he considered a throw.  But the man was still almost completely hidden and the darkness and the thick brush conspired against him.  He could not be certain of a clean cast.  Reluctantly, he loosed his hand and the knife fell with the faintest of dull thuds, standing upright and quivering in the soft earth. 

       Suddenly a small form broke from cover on the left and ran to Frodo.  A slightly larger one followed in pursuit.  _No!_ thought Aragorn desperately.  _Do not reveal yourselves!  Get back!_

 The man's head jerked towards the two small figures and the crossbow started to swing towards them.  Assessing the threat, the lethal point wavered between them then firmed on the Ranger.  Merry and Pippin had reached the still form and were kneeling by Frodo's side, then trying to raise him between them, a shoulder under each unresponsive arm.

      "You tell them to leave off," the man hissed.  "Leave the halfling where he is and to just stay where they are!"  Aragorn hesitated, torn between his vow to the Ringbearer and his own life. 

      "Now!" shouted the man.  _"Now!"_

      His death would not serve the Ringbearer.  There was a chance yet that they all could come out of this alive.  Aragorn nodded at the man to calm him, then turned to the small glade.

       "Merry!  Pippin!"  The two figures paused in pulling Frodo to his feet and looked up.  Frodo's head lolled limply, his face hidden by shadow.  From the center of the clearing, they could not see the man crouched in the underbrush.  But the strained note of Aragorn's voice held them. 

        "This man has a crossbow trained on me.  Lay Frodo down and stay there, or he will shoot."

      The cousins had Frodo up now, his boneless form balanced between them.  They stood irresolute for a moment, then the larger form whispered something to the smaller and they began to ease their burden down, laying him gently on the grass.  Pippin sat down and tenderly maneuvered Frodo's head into his lap, stroking back the dark hair.  Merry knelt at Pippin's side, one hand laid protectively on his elder cousin's chest, the other clenched on his sword hilt as his eyes scanned the perimeter, trying to pinpoint the man's exact location. 

      The man sighed in relief.  "Powell?" he called.  "Bran?  Kane?"

      Kane must have been the first man he had downed, Aragorn realized.  He had struck the man to disable, not kill.  Soon he would be regaining consciousness, if he were not already.  As if on cue, from behind him a ragged groan sounded and the Ranger's heart sank.  Disarmed and held motionless, he and the hobbits would have no chance against two armed and ready men.

       "Kane?" called the man.  "Kane?"

       The groan sounded again, accompanied by rustling noises and muttered curses.  Aragorn dared not turn but his ears followed the man's stumbling progress through the trees, night-attuned eyes picking him up as the man came up on his right.  The cloaked form held one hand up to his head.  He staggered to a halt midway between the captor and his captive, looking from one to the other with unfocused animosity.  "He hit me!" the man growled, as if this were the greatest affront imaginable.  "He snuck up on me, and he hit me!"

       Aragorn swallowed a reply that he wished he had hit the man a good deal harder.  It would be a while before the other two awoke, anyway, and the one that Sam had struck with his frying pan… 

       Sam?

       With a start, Aragorn realized that he had quite forgotten the stocky halfling.  It was easy to do; Sam was so self-effacing and quiet.  As surreptitiously as possible, he began to scan the surrounding area.  But it was Pippin who guided his gaze to the missing hobbit.  From the corner of his eye, he saw Pippin stiffen and lean forward, his gaze intent on something to Aragorn's right.   Merry too seemed intent, head tilted slightly, but only someone familiar with the young halfling could tell that he was tracking Sam by sound.  Aragorn himself could hear nothing.  Without turning his head, the Ranger followed Pippin's gaze.  Still, he almost did not see the flash of movement mirrored under the stars.  A curly head showed itself momentarily between some bushes between the men, then disappeared again.  Hobbit magic…

       He had to help Sam somehow.  "What do you want with us?" Aragorn asked, catching the two men's gazes and holding them.  He kept his hands up to appear less of a threat, empty palms turned towards them.  The man he had struck was staring fixedly at him, hatred on his coarse features.  The other holding the crossbow alternated between watching him and flicking his eyes to the three hobbits in the meadow.  Aragorn knew the man could turn and shoot in either direction before he had a chance of attacking.  Merry and Pippin were silent, but the Ranger knew the night wind carried their words easily to hobbit ears.

        "There's a bounty on the halflings," the crossbow wielder replied, more amiable now that the situation was in his favor.   "More than one, I'm told.  My friends and I have been watching this valley for over a month, waiting for all the men and Elves and Dwarves to leave.  Laying in ditches, covered with brush, hoping you'd come by the south road… No fire, cold stale rations - living in a filthy little cave so we wouldn't be seen…" the man hacked and spat, his disgust evident.  "So what was that all about, eh?"

       Aragorn was silent.  It had been too much to hope for that the Council of Elrond would remain secret - too many people had been involved.  Not only the delegates sent by the Free Peoples, but their servants and support staff and minor officials.  At least it did not seem that word of the reason for the Council had been spread.  How far had the whispers and rumors progressed, Aragorn wondered?  

       "A bounty?  How much?" questioned Aragorn, seeking to distract the man.  Infusing his voice with just the amount of interest and greed, he sparked suspicion in the other.

      "Aye," the man growled.  "Which _we'll be claiming so never you mind how much.  A bounty offered by the wizard Saruman.  For the halflings guesting at Rivendell to be delivered to him, alive and unspoiled.  The other bounty offered is said to be far greater, but I wouldn't…" the man trailed off and shivered.  "I'll not risk my skin to deal with…" he swallowed then continued more firmly,  "Not for any promise of gold.  At least Saruman is human … or close enough."  _

     The other man had been woozily patting down his clothing and now held up his empty scabbard.  "Where's me sword?  And me knives?"

      Glad of a reason to turn the other man's interest from the Council of Elrond, Aragorn turned slightly to face the one he had knocked unconscious.  "I threw them into the woods.  Surely you did not expect me to leave them to you?"

      The man took a step forward, his hands balling into fists, face darkening with rage.  Aragorn was peripherally aware that Merry was cautiously edging to his feet and desperately wished the hobbit would kneel again, making himself a less visible target. 

       "Back off, Kane," snapped the leader.  "You – you tell him where his gear is."

       Aragorn waved a hand towards the spot.  "Back there.  At the base of a pine tree."

       The man snarled an oath, obviously wishing to use those fists.  The leader jerked his head.  The man stalked off in the direction the Ranger had indicated, the promise of retribution in every line of his body.

        The other watched him go.  "You'd best be telling the truth," he remarked casually, one hand caressing the stock of the crossbow.  "Kane there would like nothing more than to take a lie out of your hide."

       "I do not lie," returned Aragorn softly.  "Not even to brigands and turncoats."

      The man stiffened, and Aragorn found the crossbow raised to his throat.  He dared not take a step back as the razored point of the bolt grazed the vulnerable skin just below his jaw.  A trickle of something warm followed the sharp pain and began to trickle down his neck.

       "Brigand?" said the man softly.  "Turncoat?  These little folk aren't our kind.  What matter to you if we make a profit off a wizard's foolishness?"

      "They are one of the Free Peoples," retorted Aragorn.  "They have as much right to walk Middle-earth in liberty as you or I.  What you do here is wrong."

      The man's face flushed dangerously and the Ranger wondered if he had gone too far.  But the man would not be goaded into an incautious action that might turn to his captive's advantage.  "Kane!" he shouted.  "Get back here!"  No reply answered his call.  "Kane!" the man shouted again.

       Nothing.

       Furious now, the man glanced into the meadow again then back to Aragorn.  His face paled and his gaze swung back to the meadow.  Only two figures were there now, the still one on the ground and the one pillowing his head in his lap.  Aragorn felt his heart surge as he identified Merry as the missing one.  Good for Merry!  That little one possessed Ranger potential. 

      "Where is he?" snapped the man.  "The other little one?  And the fat one?" 

      Aragorn raised an eyebrow at him, his gaze deceptively mild.  "I do not know where they are.  I did not see them go.  But what harm could there be in the little folk loose?  Surely they are too small and weak to be a threat to you."

       The man considered this then nodded his head.  The Ranger almost felt sorry for him.

       "It is of no matter.  We will capture them again.  Kane!  Answer me, you offal!"  Still he did not receive a response.  "Lazy, good-for-nothing…"

      To this the Ranger did not reply.  His attention was on the two small heads that had shown themselves briefly and deliberately to him out of his captor's line of sight.  Merry held up one of Kane's knives and Sam had the other, evidently having stowed his fry pan to use the blade.  Aragorn nodded imperceptivity and both hobbits sheathed their swords in favor of the more manageable knives.  Both looked very grim and Aragorn wondered what had happened to Kane.  He hoped it had been painful.

       Merry pointed to the man then to the opening in the trees that led into the clearing.  He and Sam melted back into the underbrush behind the leader, one of each side of the path and were lost to the Ranger's sight.

       "Let me see to the halfling," requested Aragorn.  "He is dear to me, and he has been very still for too long.  I fear for him.  I am a healer – let me see if he is hurt."

      "I hit him harder than I wished to," admitted the man, his glance straying again to Frodo and the protectively hovering Pippin.   "I caught him unawares, but he was very quick and I was forced to strike him down."

      Aragorn felt rage rip through him, though none of it showed in his voice.  "Were not your orders to deliver the little ones alive and unspoiled?  These halflings are more fragile than men, and that one has endured trials that have made him still more so.  Let me look at him."

       "All right," agreed the man, motioning for the Ranger to move forward with the crossbow.  "You go first."

      Still keeping his hands well away from his body, Aragorn walked slowly forward farther into the meadow.  He glanced back with a slight turning of his head and from the corner of his eye saw starlight glimmer on the drawn blades of knives. 

       He felt rather than heard the violent rustle of brush at the edge of the trees as two hobbits leaped out of hiding.  The man behind him shrieked once, shrilly, piercingly.  The _twang_ of the bolt releasing was lost in his scream.  Then something drove into his back with the force of a lightening bolt, and through the red wash of pain that swept over him as he fell, Aragorn realized that he had been shot.

* TBC *


	18. Caught in the Trap

(Author's Note:  Eiluj, you read my fics over the phone and provide friends e-mail updates?  I'm flattered and a little stunned.  Distortion, I defy anyone to pack more emotion into a review than you do.  Aratlithiel, I hope the 'taking care' of our Ranger meets your expectations. Tmmeow, this story was supposed to be humorous, light-hearted fare – but somehow it turned into an 'epic.'  I'm not sure how that happened.  Ariel – yes, ma'am!  Cliffhanger being resolved, ma'am!  Aelfgifu, isn't it awful how there aren't enough hours in the day?  I think writers should have a special dispensation from God for more time…  TTTurtle and Gentle Hobbit – it wasn't me!  _I_ didn't shoot him!  Fliewatuet, thank you.  As Shirebound says, it is encouragement that keeps us writers going.  Endymion, even if you don't catch this chapter before going on vacation, _relax_ and have a good time!  Hi, BellaMonte!  As long as you give us "Treasures" I will forgive you anything.  LilyBaggins, thank you for your review and reassurance on "A Little Affliction."  Your first-person portrayal of Frodo is an absolute delight.   Fantasy Fan, thank you for picking up on the 'various moods' of the story – a lot of effort has gone into that.  Bookworm2000, you know, it's odd for all the danger our Ranger faces, he hardly ever gets hurt.  Fionarox, yes, I'm writing even as you type.  Buttered_onions, I have this mental image of you curling into a fetal position and muttering to yourself.  Shirebound and Coriandra and Lady Eleclya, I am surprised by people's reactions to Aragorn's being shot – it has just been fascinating.  A Elbereth, I do feel ashamed.  Just a little, though.  Frodomeg, you have my solemn promise that I would _never_ do that.  Tavion, I hope this wait wasn't too long?  Hi Firnsarnien – I thought you had been unnaturally quiet recently.  Welcome back.  Kay, I can't imagine _LotRs_ without Merry and Pip.  They add so many layers.  Kit, I have the CD set of _LotRs_ read by Rob Inglis of the Royal Shakespeare Company – oh, it is wonderful.  Elbereth, you got it!  My especial thanks to my beta-reader supreme, Marigold, for suggesting the expansion of the hobbits' comfort of Aragorn and writing much of it.  The kudos go to her, friends.  Thank you, everyone!) 

Chapter 18:  Caught in the Trap

       Dimly he became aware that someone was crying in great distress.  To hear someone weeping in such heart-wrenching pain twisted his own heart and he sought to drag himself out of the deep well of crushing darkness that imprisoned him so that he could comfort that someone.  Who could not, hearing such grief?

      He tried to gather his arms under him and push himself up, but the agony that tore through him at the attempt ripped a cry from his throat and left him shuddering and nauseated and he fell back to the ground.  Instead of the words of comfort he had meant to offer, all that emerged from his mouth was an inarticulate, "Aaghhuuah…"

      The choking sobs redoubled in volume and vaguely, he felt small arms tighten about his head.  "Pippin!" ordered a familiar voice, "move over!  Let him get some air.  He isn't dead.  No need to carry on so." 

      Something brushed his hair, then a small hand was patting his face.  "Aragorn?  Aragorn, are you awake?"

      Wishing that such was not the case, the Ranger whispered, "Unfortunately … yes."

      "I told you he wouldn't die that easily," said the familiar voice, which the man hazily identified as Meriadoc.  As he was still not yet able to focus his thoughts, he thought he should make sure.  

      "Merry?"

      "Yes.  We are all here, Aragorn."

      Something had been wrong.  Ah, he had it.  "Frodo?"

      "Yes, Aragorn," came another voice, and the Ranger felt a dampened cloth wipe the cold perspiration from his face.  There was a rock pressing into his chest and another, sharper rock felt like it had been driven into his back.  It seemed a great effort to lift his head.  He tried to look toward the new voice and a gentle hand pressed him back down.  "I am here also.  Thanks to you, and to the others."  Someone moved into his field of vision.  He struggled to focus but could see the Ringbearer only as a shadowy form outlined by the light of the stars.  Faint flickers of light danced across Frodo's worried face and belatedly, Aragorn realized that someone must have made a fire somewhere behind him.  That would be Sam, then...  

      Ah, good.  All of his hobbits were accounted for.  He could relax now.  Faintly he heard their voices discussing him; Frodo thanking Sam for putting on a pot of water to heat, Pippin asking if they shouldn't remove his boots and loosen his clothing to make him more comfortable.  Then he remembered something else.  The reason he was lying here.  "The men?"

      Frodo came back into his line of sight, and Aragorn realized he was lying on his stomach, his head turned rather uncomfortably to the side.  His wits seemed to be slow in returning.  Displaced from cradling Aragorn's head by Merry, Pippin had immediately found another spot and now curled against his side, pressing himself close.  Even as he registered that, a gentle hand reached up to pat his cheek and carefully push the hair out of his eyes.  

      "We've taken care of them," Frodo assured him.  "Or rather Sam and Merry and Pippin did.  They are all tied up most securely.  Two are still unconscious. You have not been out long."

      Aragorn nodded then squinted at Frodo.  It seemed most odd to him to be looking up at the hobbit.  A thought rambled across his mind and he wondered how it would be to always have to look up at larger folk, as the hobbits must.    "Were any of you hurt?  And are _you_ all right, Frodo?"

      "We are all fine.  My head is sore, but that's all."  The hobbit raised a hand to his head and Aragorn noted it trembled slightly.  "We are more concerned about you."

      Aragorn reluctantly took stock of himself.  Except for the sharp stab every time he breathed, he did not seem as damaged as he thought he should be with a crossbow quarrel through him.  He should be feeling a lot more pain.  Shouldn't he?

      "Can you sit up?" asked Frodo.  "Do you wish a drink of water?" 

      "I shouldn't put any weight on the wound until it is treated," replied Aragorn.  "How bad is it?"

      Frodo looked over his head at someone.  Since Pippin was cuddled against him regarding him anxiously and Merry still crouched by his head stroking his hair, it must be Sam.  "Is the water ready yet?" Frodo asked.

     "Comin', sir," responded Sam's voice.

      Frodo returned his attention to the man.  "It is going to be a very bad bruise, Aragorn.  The bolt misfired when Sam and Merry took the Man down, causing it to jump the cradle.  It struck the flat of one of your ribs and might have cracked it.  Not broken it – I would be able to feel that.  Can you inhale without too much pain?"

      Aragorn's ears had stopped feeding Frodo's words to his brain at the word 'misfired.'  "You mean I am not shot?"

     "You are shot," Merry confirmed, shifting sideways so that he could speak face-to-face with the prone Ranger.  "You just aren't exactly wounded."

      "Oh," said Aragorn blankly.  "Good."

     Merry lowered himself until he was half-reclining, looking full into the Man's face.  "Aragorn," he said softly.  "I am sorry."

     Aragorn could not make sense of the hobbit's words, though Merry's sincerity was unmistakable.  And had Merry been weeping as well as Pippin?  "For what, Merry?"

     "We meant to pull the Man down before he could fire," Merry replied softly.  "We failed, and you were hurt.  I'm sorry."

     Aragorn shifted experimentally and was rewarded with a sharp stab in his back that stole his breath.  He panted for a moment, then replied.  "If I had been killed, Merry, I would be a great deal more put out.  However – as I was not – I thank you and Samwise for my rescue."  After a moment, Merry grinned back, though a trifle uncertainly.  

      "Can you sit up?" asked Merry.  "We still need to wash and bind the bruise.  Sam has hot water ready.  I said we should just cut off your clothes, but Frodo said we should ask you first..."  Merry rambled on comfortingly, not requiring a response.  Several pairs of small hands guided him gently up and against one of the trees edging the clearing.  Still somewhat in shock that he was not dead, Aragorn listed to the side and immediately found a small warm body propping him up.  Pippin grinned up at him, still sniffling, but with such relief on his sharp face that the Ranger returned his smile full measure.  He slid an arm around the tweenager and was gratified to feel Pippin hug him carefully back and nuzzle into his neck, face still wet with tears.

       He took a deep breath and grimaced at the sharp stab in his upper torso.  It felt much like being kicked in the back by a horse.  Painful, but not unbearable.  "I can breathe," he said, belatedly replying to Frodo's question.  Frodo nodded.  Then he and Sam were carefully guiding the bow up and over his head, and removing his quiver to lay them aside.  Frodo seated himself behind the Ranger, asking him to lean forward while he and Sam eased off his leather coat and tunic, but directed Merry to simply push up his shirt in an effort to keep him warm in the crisp night air.  Aragorn smiled at the hobbit's unnecessary concern; he did not feel cold.

      Frodo gently bathed the bruise while Merry held the shirt away and Sam insisted that the Ranger take small sips of water.  Pippin remained glued to Aragorn's side, supporting and warming him much as the youngster had done for Frodo after Weathertop.  Aragorn was touched to his very soul.  Not just by Pippin's tender care, but by the gentle ministrations of all four hobbits.  He found his eyes were damp, but not with tears of pain … far from it. 

       Aragorn relaxed as they worked, his mind drifting as the pain receded.  It felt strange to him, alien, to be tended with such gentleness.  Rangers cared for each other, of course, but their care was more … reserved.  One did not insult a warrior's dignity with murmured soothing words of nonsensical reassurance such as his companions whispered to him now.  He had known much affection fostered with his elven kin.  But the affection shown him there was more dignified, more … distant than the love presently being lavished upon him.  Never before had he experienced such heartfelt encouragement and comfort as these four small folk bestowed on him.  Their unquestioning acceptance and inclusion of him in their tightly knit familial group was a gift beyond any he had known.  Faint memories of being rocked in his mother's arms as a tiny child stirred in him, a consolation not experienced since.  Certainly none of his kin would think to stroke his hair or rub his shoulders, of pressing against him as if he were another (albeit very large) hobbit in need of reassurance and comfort.

      His mind returned to the others' care of Frodo after Weathertop – the hobbit had never been left alone.  The others were always nearby, one or more small warm body always touching him.   Aragorn had seen with his own eyes how much that support had strengthened Frodo as he battled the agony and creeping darkness of his wound to hold to life.  That he was being offered the same unrestrained devotion now affected Aragorn deeply.  Hobbits were different from men; he had known that intellectually and from his travels with these small folk.  But how different were the easily said words from actually experiencing being cared for as they would succor one of their own.  

       Frodo laid his hand gently against the swelling skin, noting that it already exceeded the span of his spread fingers.  When the washing was done, he sat back on his heels and regarded the injury doubtfully.  The stars, even supported by the faint light of the fire, did not illuminate the bruise as more than a darkening of the skin but he could see that it was already coloring.  "Should we bind it?" he asked Aragorn.  "It would provide some cushioning, at least."

      Aragorn shifted, testing the soreness.  "No, let it be.  It will heal.  I may ask one of you to carry my pack for a day or so, though."

      Frodo rose and helped Merry tug the Ranger's clothing into place.  Sam knelt behind Aragorn, supporting the man's weight while Merry and Frodo guided his arms back into his tunic, then eased him into his long leather coat.  Pippin did not offer to move, only adjusting his position so that the others could work around him.  

     Now comfortably ensconced in a nest of blankets, Aragorn watched as Frodo rather shakily sat down.  The Ranger was concerned anew to see the hobbit rubbing his forehead.  "Frodo, let me examine your head.  You were unconscious for a worrisome amount of time."

       Frodo shook his head, his pale face momentarily tightening at the movement.  "It only aches, Aragorn.  Truly.  Sam, is there enough of that hot water left for tea?"

       "Aye," replied Sam.   "I'll make some.  It will be ready right after Strider looks at your head."  Merry hid a smile at Frodo's martyred sigh.

      Defeated, Frodo knelt again, this time before the Ranger and bowed his head, allowing Aragorn to run his hands through the thick curls.  He flinched slightly when the man's hands encountered a sticky patch behind his left ear.  

       "There is a small amount of blood here, Frodo," Aragorn said slowly, sensitive fingers outlining the sizable lump under the skin of the scalp.  It stretched from the top of the delicately pointed ear to the lobe.

     Frodo twitched uncomfortably.  "He was hiding behind the trees and caught me as I walked past.  It was my fault – I was not paying attention.  All I remember is a dark shape lunging at me.  Picking me up...  I kicked it and tried to draw my sword.  Then he must have hit me, for I remember nothing more."

      Aragorn pressed harder, searching for roughness or a depression of the skull but found none.   "You are going to be quite sore on the morrow."  He released the curly head and sighed.  "We both are."

      Pippin had remained quiet during Aragorn's treatment and Frodo's examination, a sure sign of how unsettled he was.  Still cocooned warmly under the Ranger's arm, the tweenager looked up into the Man's face then over at his cousin.  "What are we going to do with those Men?"

      That question had not been far from any of their minds.  Sam silently ladled tea into each of their mugs, then with a flourish, opened a small sack and dropped into each a somewhat grimy lump of sugar (indulgently dropping a second lump into Pippin's mug when he thought the others weren't looking).  That done, Sam pulled out two blankets from his pack and covered his master then added the second to the mound over the Ranger.  Both thanked him with a smile, knowing to protest was useless.  Hands wrapped around his mug, the stocky hobbit sat down with the others and looked at Aragorn.

      "They are tied, you said," said Aragorn slowly, seeking to order his thoughts.

      "Yes," Merry responded.  "Each of them carried rope.  Meant for us, I assume."

      "You heard what the leader told me?" asked Aragorn, and received a nod each from Merry and Pippin and Sam.

      He looked to Frodo and received a pensive nod.  "They told me."

     Aragorn sighed.  "The most expedient course -"

     "No," said Frodo.

      "Frodo," Aragorn argued, "if we leave them alive, what is to prevent them from keeping watch on us and returning another time, perhaps in greater numbers?  Or marking our passage as we leave Rivendell?  A quick death is more merciful than what you would have experienced, did they deliver you into Saruman's hands."

       Even the dim light of the coldly shining stars and the dying firelight was sufficient for them all to see the blood drain from the Ringbearer's face.  Aragorn pressed his advantage.   "And what of your cousins and Sam?  How long do you think they would live, after the wizard found out you were the one he wanted?  Not long, though it would seem far too long nevertheless."  He hugged Pippin to him a little tighter.  "To you as well, for you would be forced to watch.  I have heard of the games Saruman has taken to playing in the pits of Isengard.  You do not want to hear of what he does to captives, Frodo."  Frodo shuddered, his averted face lost in the darkness.  The other hobbits looked at each other fearfully.  Finally Sam broke the silence.

      "They must have horses hereabouts, if they meant 'ta carry us to Isengard.  If I know anything about horse-kind, they'll be barn-sour by now.  We could -"

     "Barn-sour?" interrupted Aragorn, unfamiliar with the term.

     "It means they'll be wanting to return to their nice, comfortable stable," explained Merry.  "Any horse or pony has a wide streak of lazy.  My family has bred riding ponies for generations, and I've yet to meet one that wouldn't prefer its warm barn to a day of work."  He paused, and said with a smile in his voice, "Sam, are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

      "I think I am, Mr. Merry."

      Merry's grin widened.  "And here I didn't think you had a mean bone in your body."

      "Would you two mind letting the rest of us in on your little idea?" requested Frodo with some exasperation.

      "Oh!" giggled Pippin suddenly.  "That's wicked, Sam!  Good for you!"

      "Apparently, Frodo," mused Aragorn, "you and I are the only ones here with some inherent moral decency.  Do you have any idea what they are talking about?"

     "Unfortunately, now that I think about it … perhaps I do," confessed Frodo.  "Sam, I'm surprised at you.  Do you think it will work?"

     "It should," Sam replied.  "All we have to do is find the horses.  And Strider will have 'ta help us lift them."

     "Oh," groaned the Ranger, suddenly understanding.  "Tied to a horse until they reach Orthanc?  That is _cruel_."

     "Not until they reach the tower," Merry said hastily.  "We'll tie them with slipknots and the horses can buck them off after, oh … three or four days."

      "Horses and ponies are right smart," offered Sam.  "If they get tired of a rider, they knock him off by running under a tree.  Or rubbing him against a boulder.  O' course, if the riders are tied on, well … it might take them several tries … after they've bucked them for a day or two."

      The Ranger gazed at them with mixed horror and admiration.  "Remind me," he said, "never, never to get you four angry with me."

* * * * * 

      It did not take much searching the find the horses.  While Aragorn and Frodo and Sam dragged the bound men into the clearing, Merry and Pippin followed their ears (and their noses) to locate the motley assortment of rough-coated, ill-tempered equines.  The cousins led the balking, shying horses one at a time back to their impromptu campsite, the animals fighting the lead-reins all the way.  The young hobbits were more than relieved to stake each cantankerous beast near to where the bound Men lay glowering in the grass. 

     Aragorn and Frodo and Sam had a nasty shock when they went last to the place where Merry and Sam had taken down the leader. The man was gone.  Frayed rope littered the ground, traces of blood on the rough strands.  A substantial blood-trail led off into the deeper woods, and here and there, they could all see where the man's torn wrists had left smudges of glistening darkness on leaves as he passed.  

      "Look at this," Aragorn said, holding up the razored head of the bolt that had gone awry.  "He pushed himself over to it and used it to sever his bonds.  There is blood on it; he cut himself in the freeing."

       "Good!" said Sam, "Between that and what damage Mr. Merry and I did, I just hope he bleeds 'ta death."  He ignored the appalled look that his master gave him and went cautiously over to one of the horses, which slanted its overlarge ears back at him and bared its teeth.  "I was planning on savin' the meanest brute for him.  Off you go, then.  If you see that Man, you just give him a good bite for me."  He kicked up the stake-rope and slapped the animal's withers, leaping quickly out of the bolting mount's way.

        Aragorn needed all of the hobbits and the aid of a sturdy tree to get the bound, gagged men up on the remaining hacks.  The men struggled and swore and kicked, and Aragorn left off any attempt to be gentle with them.  Fearing that one of the halflings might be injured, he tied a loop of rope around each man's chest under his arms, then tossed the other end up to dangle over a convenient limb.  He and the hobbits thus hoisted the men onto their mounts, the men leaving behind much skin in the process. 

      One had loosened his gag enough to heap abuse upon his captors, evidently not appreciating the turn-about.  After enduring several repetitions and variations of, "You'll be sorry when Saruman hears of this," Aragorn decided to put the man's verbosity to good use.  He pulled the gag off completely and stared into the man's bloodshot eyes.

     "Are there any more of your sort watching the roads?" the Ranger asked in the softest of voices.  The man grew quiet and Aragorn's face hardened.  "Did you chance upon us, or did you have notice that we would come by the South Road?"  The man's eyes darted from side to side but there was no escape from the cold-eyed Ranger before him.

       "It would be wise to answer," suggested Aragorn softly.

       The man gulped, panic blooming on his face.  "Or what?" he demanded, the bravado rather spoiled by the fear in his voice.

       The Ranger considered that.  What he might do to extract the desired information was limited by four sets of apprehensive eyes.  Rescue came from an unexpected source.

      "I'd be right willing to hit him with my frying pan," volunteered Sam, oblivious to the gasps from Merry and Pippin and one strangled, _"Sam!"_ from Frodo. 

      Aragorn's mouth twitched in spite of the seriousness of the offer.  Sam's hitherto-unexpected ferocity might come in useful, but whether the man answered or not was actually unimportant.  If all of the roads out of Rivendell had not been watched before, they would be now.  

      The horses did not appreciate the novel method of having their riders mount and managed to get in several good bites, all fortunately inflicted upon the struggling men.  A second man managed to work his gag loose and treated his captors to a steady diatribe of curses and foul-mouthed imprecations, his repertoire really quite impressive.  Pippin listened with wide eyes and great interest until he fell under his older cousins' disapproving gaze.  Seeing Frodo staring at him narrowly, Pippin flushed and became very busy folding blankets and stowing their gear in their packs and putting out the fire.  But his pointed ears remained tilted back until Merry walked over to him and purposefully laid his hands over the curious ears.  "Inventive, isn't he," Merry remarked to his elder cousin.  "Odd - they don't look flexible enough to … perform all those … activities.  Men must be more … umm - _limber than I knew." _

      The man that Sam had walloped with his fry pan was still out and Aragorn peeled back an eyelid to peer at the rolled-back orb.  What he saw evidently reassured him, for he tightened the rope around the man's wrists and to the saddle's pommel.  The horse tried to kick him as he backed away.  As the Ranger and the hobbits saw them off, they noticed the beasts' hindquarters were already bunching.

      Aragorn leaned against the tree, panting heavily.  "I will tell Elrond of this when we return," he murmured.  "My lord must know that a watch is on his lands."  He turned to the halflings.  "Can you go on a little farther tonight?  I would leave this unlucky place behind us."

      Frodo glanced at each of his friends and nodded.  "We are very weary, but I agree, Aragorn, if you feel able to go on.  Let us find a quiet, sheltered spot and then rest."

       Pippin gathered up Aragorn's pack, slinging it over his shoulder and across the front of his body, nearly overbalancing himself.  "When we get there," asked Pippin, "may we eat?  I'm hungry."

* TBC *


	19. Into the Frying Pan

(Author's Note:  Hi Katakandian!  I repeat – it wasn't me!  Lady Eleclya, your words made _my_ day brighter. Nilmandra, the hobbits really are 'amazing creatures!'  Fliewatuet, you sound like a Pippin fan.  Aren't we all?  Aratlithiel, thank you.  That was an unbelievably hard sequence to plot.  Emma, you need a break from RATM now and then – there are good hobbits, too!  Shirebound, thank you for the list.  To know that the humor survives through all the action is a relief.  Lindelea, so much of the humor in LotRs is dry; I just try to follow the Professor's lead.  Distortion, I can see the horror on Elrond's elegant features already.  Bearleft, I appreciate you following the story, reviewing often or not.  Fionarox, that was so kind of you to go to such detail.  I take your comments to heart – thank you.  Bookworm2000, if this keeps up, Aragorn is going to renege on the Quest.  Elwen, I'm glad, too.  I already have nightmares of them turning up on my doorstep and getting even with me.  Gentle Hobbit, the credit goes to Marigold.  She suggested that Aragorn finally get some TLC back.  Kay, you are right - the one escapee commands the attack on the Fellowship in "The Ruin of Men and Elves."  Firnsarnien, tied to a bucking, biting horse for several days?  Hah – revenge is sweet!  Savannah, keeping the characterizations true isn't that difficult, really – they are so unique to themselves.  Pebbles, thank you; I try.  BellaMonte, I'm surprised Elrond didn't prescribe Estel meds to cope with the hobbits…  LilyBaggins and Kit, again, the credit for that goes to Marigold.  Arabella thorne, thank you.  I am proud of that description, it is so important.  Tavion, I thought Sam ought to have some outlet for that pent-up aggression.  Frodomeg, no one vital to the story, and never a Fellowship member.  Otherwise … no promises.  My thanks, as always, to Marigold for knowing just what the story needs and adding the lines that tug so at the heart.  And to all of you for your support and encouragement.)        

Chapter 19:  Into the Frying Pan

      The weary party struggled on through the thickly wooded forest for another league before Aragorn deemed it safe to camp for the night.  The Ranger glanced often behind him and the hobbits kept a close watch on the trees.  But they heard and saw nothing other than the night-noises and movement of small animals, nothing to give them cause for alarm

      "Walking party, he said," grumbled a soft, aggrieved voice behind Aragorn.  "A leisurely walk to enjoy the _lovely forest foliage.  No one said anything to __me about marching till we drop and _starving_ and being attacked by Men and…" it continued on so for some time, until Aragorn decided to distract the tweenager by initiating a conversation that all could share in._

       "How badly did you wound the man?" asked Aragorn of Merry.  The young hobbit was walking beside him, providing the Ranger a convenient hand-rest on his shoulder to steady his steps. Merry kept the shoulder lifted to ease the strain on the Ranger's arm while his sharp eyes sought the smoothest path for their steps.  Aragorn feared he might be hurting the halfling, or at least allowing Merry to hurt himself, but Merry made no complaint and his careful steps never faltered.  In truth, Aragorn was indebted for the support.

      "We tried to push him down as we struck him with the knives," the hobbit explained.  "Knock him flat and crush the crossbow beneath him.  We only partially succeeded; it still fired." 

      "It misfired," amended the Ranger.  "Most certainly saving my life.  I said it  before, but it bears repeating now that I am more awake and myself.  I am grateful for my life. Thank you, Merry.  Thank you, Sam."

       Walking behind Aragorn with his master, the heavy-set hobbit ducked his head, his shy smile hidden in the dark.  Frodo looked over to him then squeezed his arm.  Merry beamed up at the Ranger, eyes gleaming and bright curls bleached silver by the stars. 

       "'Ta answer your question," Sam said, "Mr. Merry and I both got a knife in  him on either side, but not deep.  At least mine wasn't.  He was moving – it were more o' a slice than a stab."

       "The same for me," agreed Merry.  "You Big People take such long strides.  We hurt him, but not to death I think."

       "Then he may well carry tales back to the one who sent him," murmured Aragorn, his keen gaze unfocused in the starlight.  "And the watch will be increased upon Rivendell.  I will speak to Elrond about us leaving at night when we go – perhaps it will confuse or delay them, a little."

        Frodo had not spoken for some time, and Aragorn glanced back at him in concern, worried that the headache was worsening.  There had been a brief but animated discussion ere they had set out between the Ringbearer and the Ringbearer's gardener over just who was going to carry Frodo's pack.  Pippin had sat down and enjoyed himself, Merry leaning resignedly against his shoulder.  Frodo had lost the battle of wills with the result being that Sam was carrying his master's pack and Frodo walked unencumbered but disgruntled.  Aragorn was glad that Sam had prevailed; Frodo was plainly tiring and in pain.

     They would need to rest very soon.  Pippin had resisted all of Aragorn's attempts to retrieve his pack, doggedly carrying it as well as his own, and the sleepy tweenager was beginning to weave and stumble.  Frodo was slowing, dropping back, so that Pippin and Sam were forced also to slow to keep him in the center of their protective circle.  Aragorn doubted that the Ringbearer realized what the others were doing, how they sheltered him with their own bodies.  A sign that Frodo was tired indeed.  If he did notice, the Ranger thought with a grimace, there would no doubt be a sudden resurgence of energy and strangled whispers and much aggravated waving of arms. 

        A small stand of close-growing pine was the only shelter he could see for as far as the starlight shone.  "We will stop here," he said, pointing to the grove, and nodded to himself when he heard four tired sighs of relief.  "No fire.  There is a little food left in our packs – let us finish it and we will hunt tomorrow."

       Only Pippin showed much appetite at all.  Despite the urging of the others,  Frodo refused his portion and gave it to the tweenager, sitting quiet and introspective, watching the stars.  Sam and Merry ate their portions slowly, with no unnecessary words.  Aragorn ate too, though he did not want the food, and pondered what might have happened.

      He had thought to turn back, return to Rivendell.  But the hobbits had vetoed the suggestion.  "We want to see this marvel you keep going on about," said Frodo stubbornly, "if you are able to continue that is?"  He paused and looked at the Ranger closely.  Aragorn returned the inspection with amusement and Frodo sat back, satisfied with the man's recovery.  "And if we haven't missed it, that is?"

      "It is over," the Ranger had told them, hiding his delight at the four disappointed faces, Frodo's most of all.  "However … we haven't missed it.  And thank you, Frodo, but I am quite able to continue.  What I have spoken of will appear at a certain time, and we can still see it."

     "But you haven't spoken of it," pressed Frodo.  "And I think it is most unfair of you to torment us this way."  Aragorn smiled but no more hints would he give.  Frodo looked like he would like to award him a good kick. 

       So it was decided that they would go on.  Aragorn mused to himself that he had thought he would never see the day when hobbit curiosity overcame hobbit comfort.  He had thought to take the first watch, enjoy a pipe in peace and think, but the hobbits would not hear of it.  "You need to rest, Aragorn," Merry said decisively.  "You too, Frodo.  Sam and Pip and I will take the watches."  

      His and Frodo's protestations were ignored.  Merry sat down and firmly turned his back to them, sharp eyes already scanning the darkness.  Aragorn settled into his blankets, wise enough to know when to give in.  A moment later, three small warm bodies arrayed themselves around him.  Frodo claimed the spot at his chest, Pippin at his back, and Sam curled against his legs.  The Ranger was surprised.  Before Weathertop, the hobbits had slept close to each other but scattered, seeking the softest ground.  After that terrible place, not a night passed save those in Elrond's House that Frodo and Pippin were not cocooned by the others.  It might be Merry-Pippin-Frodo-Sam or now and again Sam-Pippin-Frodo-Merry, but Merry and Sam always claimed the outside spaces.  But tonight they chose to drape themselves about him, placing him in the position of greatest safety.  Warmed by soft hobbit bodies and comforted by their presence, the Ranger fell asleep to the music of their soft breathing.  

* * * * *

The next morning dawned bright and cold, the sky that perfect blue that meant it would warm up greatly later in the day.  The new day also brought with it a reminder for the Ranger – hungry halflings do not wake up in amiable moods. 

       After going into a hobbit-huddle, (so Aragorn had named it in his mind whenever the four stood shoulder-to-shoulder, curly heads together in tight discussion of some serious issue) they decided to go hunting with their slings.  Aragorn marveled anew at the hobbits' expertise with the small weapons.  Considered children's playthings among his own people, in hobbit-hands they were deadly.  A luckless rabbit and a brace of grouse were now turning on the spit while Sam sliced up wild onions he had foraged to fry in the fat.  Pippin gathered several handfuls of acorns, leaching out the bitterness in water and rendering them edible.  These Sam diced and added to the onions, and the resulting aroma caused a symphony of rumbling stomachs.

        Breakfast was consumed with little talk, in reverent respect for the food.  At last Aragorn sat back and handed Pippin his bowl and mug for wash up.  With a wince, he slung his pack over his back, after removing a certain item.  "Are you certain you do not wish one of us to carry it today?" asked Frodo, seeing the Ranger flinch.

       "I am all right, Frodo.  Thank you.  How is your head?"

       Frodo started to touch the spot behind his ear then withdrew his hand.  "Sore.  But not so aching."

       "Perhaps this will help," Aragorn said, steeling himself for battle.  He presented one of the vials of tonic that Elrond had required be administered to the Ringbearer and handed it to the hobbit, who took it automatically.  Then Frodo's dark brows drew down and his mouth opened –

       "My lord said you were to take it," the Ranger said firmly.  "It will strengthen you."   He noted that the other hobbits had withdrawn to a safer distance.  He felt an overpowering desire to join them.

      Frodo glowered at the medicine, then the sweetest smile spread over his face.  Aragorn's heart sank.  _He wouldn't._  "Strengthen me…" the Ringbearer murmured, no doubt recognizing the foul concoction.  "You were hurt, too.  I will share the bounty."  He held out the phial to the man.  "You first."  _He would._

      "No, I -"

      "Then we shall sit here until we starve," announced Frodo grandly.  "Beautiful place for it."

       Hobbit and human stared at each other.  Frodo leaned back and crossed his arms, gaze narrowed and dark eyebrows curving into a gentle "s" above his eyes.  Aragorn looked at him back, his expression slack as he ransacked his mind desperately for an escape.  

        "One of you has to give in," pointed out Merry diplomatically after some time had passed.  "What if you take it together?"  He gingerly removed another phial from the wooden case and held it out towards Aragorn.  

        Pippin was assigned the task of counting to three, which he enjoyed entirely too much.  After the coughing and choking and frantic sipping from water skins  had ceased, the walking party was finally on its way.  Pippin looked up into Aragorn's grimacing face and fought to stifle his mirth while Merry hissed, "Pippin, behave yourself!" but set no better example.  Sam suddenly found it necessary to check his pans, back to them, but his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laugher.  Accepting that Frodo had had his revenge, Aragorn did not push them hard.  He was in discomfort, as was Frodo, they were within a day's trek of their destination, and did fate not intervene again, they would reach their destination by twilight.  And tomorrow… A smile formed on the Ranger's lips as he pictured the little ones' reactions.

      They were walking quietly, enjoying themselves, when Pippin pulled up even with the Ranger.  Aragorn glanced down at him in surprise.  Usually Pip walked with Merry, singing under his breath when Merry wasn't singing along with him, or playing riddle-games with whomever he could coerce into it or listening to his older cousins and Sam.  Aragorn had kept an idle ear on the hobbits conversations since Bree and had learned more than he cared to know about the different ways to distract a dog from guarding a vegetable patch, the planning and design of flower-beds, and ways to blot ink from precious books when an absorbed elbow had knocked over the ink-well, among other words of wisdom. 

     Today's topics had ranged from exactly how Buckland's apple trees could benefit from grafts that Lord Elrond would (hopefully) provide from his own orchard, to the least painful way to remove prickle bush thorns from one's foothair, and  whether the sky today was the same blue as the pool in Bywater or more the shade of someone named Estella Bolger's eyes, a discussion which seemed to embarrass Merry quite a bit.

    Then their voices had dropped.  Glancing back, he had seen Pippin describing something to Frodo and Sam, his quick hands gesturing animatedly.  Frodo was shaking his head.  Sam looked apprehensive and Merry, eager.  All four broke off when they saw him looking at them and became very busy paying attention to the ground.  Aragorn made a mental note to himself to be certain he found out what mischief was afoot when suddenly Pippin was there beside him tugging at his coat, looking up at him with the most innocent** expression imaginable. Aragorn immediately raised his guard to its highest alertness.**

      "I've thought of a way for you to signal Lord Elrond that we've had some trouble, Strider," the young one offered.  The Ranger eyed him silently, eyes narrowed in suspicion.  Not in the least discouraged, Pippin edged over closer and whispered, "The fireworks in your pack."

      "Pippin!  Did you search my pack?"  Outrage was difficult to convey in a whisper, but Aragorn managed it.

      "No!  No, I would never do that," the tweenager assured him, eyes wide and guileless.  "I smelled them first - Gandalf's fireworks smell like sulfur and spices.   And then maybe felt for them in the pack … just a little … when I was carrying it last night.  Are you going to set them off, Aragorn?"

       "They are for emergencies only, Pippin.  Not to entertain young hobbits."

       "Wasn't last night an emergency?"

       "Yes, but help would not have reached us for hours.  They will not be used unless the need is dire and circumstances permit it."

      "All right, all right…" Pippin trailed off and sighed heavily.  "Maybe if we're lucky, we'll get into some real trouble."   Pippin happily scuttled back to Merry,  thus missing the Ranger's look of strangled disbelief.  

      Aragorn was in the lead when they crested the top of a steep hill.  Seeing the man stand rigid and motionless, the hobbits hurried to catch up.  Before they could speak, the Ranger made a minimal gesture and the hobbits closed their mouths and looked down into the small hollow at the base of the hill.

      A wild pig rooted there, young and well-fleshed.  "Roast pork," murmured Sam.  "Pork chops.  Pork ribs with wild onions an' parsnips…" 

     "Nice crispy bacon," moaned Merry, next to him.  "Pork cracklings.  Pork with chestnut stuffing…"

      "Aragorn," whispered Frodo, "if you don't shoot that pig for us, I am going to gnaw on your leg tonight for dinner."

      "Threats of cannibalism do not move me, Frodo," the Ranger whispered back.  "I told you that _you were to provide the food for this trip.  Pretend that I am not here.  What would you do?"_

      The four hobbits exchanged glances.  Pippin pulled out his sling but returned it to his pocket with a sigh; he knew he had no hope of downing such a large creature.  "Merry," he whispered, "throw your knife."

       "That probably won't take it down, Pip," Merry replied after a long moment. 

       "But it would slow it, and maybe cripple it.  We could get down there and finish it off, then.  Roast pork!  What are you waiting for, Merry?"

        Merry's hand tightened on the small, sharp dagger but he did not draw it.  "My wrist isn't up to such a hard cast, Pippin."

       "You can use it to well enough to nearly part my hair, but not to put supper on the table?  Or blanket, to be more accurate...  Merry, I'm hungry!"

      Aragorn had been looking from one small face to another and now he put his hands on Frodo's and Sam's shoulders.  "Come, sirs," he said quietly, "let us see if we can find any grasshoppers under those logs."

       Frodo looked up at him warily.  "Grasshoppers."

      "Very crunchy," enthused the Ranger, guiding them away from the younger hobbits.  "Or termites…"

      Pippin waited until they were out of earshot, uncharacteristically patient.  Then he turned to his older cousin.  "All right, Merry," he said in his most reasonable tone of voice, "What is this about?"

      Merry was silent, his eyes on the pig.  The animal was peering up the hill, its poor eyesight trying to isolate them while its snout snuffled energetically.  They could hear it grunting faintly.  It had found something tasty at the base of a tree and was reluctant to abandon it.

       "Merry?"

      Suddenly the older hobbit made a choking sound and Pippin was horrified to see tears gathering in the blue eyes.  "I didn't mean it, Merry," he rushed on, "it's probably a horrible pig, all stringy and tough - Merry, don't cry, don't, I'm sorry!"

       Instead of obeying, Merry sank down and fought to control himself, failing miserably.  Pippin dropped next to him, his sharp face contrite and anxious.  Half a year ago, he would have badgered his cousin mercilessly until Merry confessed whatever was on his mind.  Now, Pippin sat back quietly and waited for his loved and admired cousin to order his thoughts and speak to him.

      Finally though, when Merry did not cease his weeping, Pippin inched around in front of him and placed his hands on his cousin's upraised knees, squinting into his face.  "This is about that nightmare you had, isn't it?  That you wouldn't tell me about."

       Merry nodded once, struggling still to control himself.  It seemed a ball of guilt and terror and fear of his own inadequacy had taken up residence in his stomach and was now bouncing about in his chest.  When Pippin had asked him to throw his knife – the knife that could have killed his cousin – Merry's hand had gone numb and his arm wooden.  The thought of drawing it with Pippin anywhere around petrified him.

     Pippin eyed him warily and yet with fond disgust.  "You won't tell me, but I can guess what that nightmare was about.  I've seen you practically jump out of your skin every time you think I might get hurt, Merry.  You haven't truly relaxed since the day you cast that knife in Rivendell." 

       Pippin leaned forward until his pointed nose was inches from his cousin's.  "Ridiculous Brandybuck," he muttered.  Then louder, "Merry, what makes you think you have the right to be responsible for me?"

        Merry finally met his gaze, startled by that.  "Pip!  I have always taken care of you!  Ever since you were a little lad -"

       Pippin sat back on his heels but kept his hands on his cousin's knees.  "But I'm not anymore, Merry.  Not a little lad.  I'm twenty-eight … will be of age in five years.  I am old enough to make my own decisions."

      "I'm not saying that you aren't -" Merry tried, but Pippin interrupted him.

      "Yes, you are.  By feeling that you ought to be able to control everything. To keep everything bad from happening.  You can't, Merry.  Nobody can.  You couldn't keep those Black Riders off Frodo on Weathertop, and you couldn't get us to Rivendell any faster, and you're not going to be able to dictate what happens when we leave here."

      "Pippin…"

      "And until you admit that to yourself, you can't even throw a knife at a stupid wild pig."

      Merry found that his hands were clenching Pippin's.  He bowed his head forward and took a deep breath, squeezing his cousin's hands once before releasing them.  "When did you grow up to be so clever?"

      Pippin grinned at him, all tweenager again.  "When you weren't looking.  Probably when you were nose-deep in a mug of ale.  Or snoring in a hay-loft when you should have been baling.  Or teaching me to sneak into vegetable patches.  Or -"

      "Thank you, I think I understand."

      Pippin searched his cousin's face.  "Are we all right, then?"

      Merry thought about it.  "I think so."

      "Good."  Pippin rocked back and stood up, extending a hand down to his cousin.  "I don't want to hear any more nonsense about this, Merry.  It's over and done with.  I want you to concentrate on what's real and in front of us.  Because if my pork dinner down there gets away, I won't ever forgive you."  

      Merry wiped the tears from his eyes and grasped Pippin's hand, pulling himself to his feet and into Pippin's embrace.  "Well, I couldn't live with that," Merry sniffed and gave Pippin another quick hug.  They turned back toward the wild pig.  The two had kept their voices low and their proposed dinner had not been frightened off.  Merry drew the dagger and carefully estimated the angle and distance.  He could not help but check that Pippin was well behind him, then he drew a deep breath and threw.

      The pig squealed and went down, the small dagger protruding from its short throat.  "Good job, Merry!" yelped Pippin, starting down the hill.  Then another, louder squeal drowned out what he said next.  Both hobbits ploughed to a stop, suddenly apprehensive.

      "You don't think…" Pippin murmured.

      The sow appeared between two trees, squealing shrilly.  She was huge, larger than both of the young hobbits together, sharply tusked, and filled with all the blind fury of thwarted maternal instinct.  Her razor-sharp hooves churned the earth as she launched herself up the hill, ten-score pounds of infuriated piscine rage.  Tiny, beady eyes struggled to fix on them as she hurtled herself forward with a speed they could scarcely register, plowing out great clods of earth behind her as she dug into the ground.

     For a moment both hobbits stood frozen in horrified disbelief.   Merry caught Pippin's shoulder and whirled him around.  _"Run!"   _

* TBC *


	20. And Out of the Fire

(Author's Note:  Helen, Sam is a favorite of mine, too.  And thank you for the comment on the 'threads' of the story.  Usually I plot out a story but this one just grew and grew and developed a life of its own.  Shirebound warned me that would happen.  Shirebound, you are too kind.  More than any other single person, it was your encouragement that prompted me to expand my one-chapter stories – look what a monster you created!  Distortion and TTTurtle, you will find a little ease here – everyone can catch their breath.  Hi, Pervinca B.  I have somewhat a different outlook on survival hunting as growing up in Alaska, there were many dinners my family would have missed if I hadn't shot it.  Tavion, I enjoyed Frodo's gentle revenge too.  Elwen, what a good point about our Ranger's people-skills.  [Plot bunny in there somewhere…]   Firnsarnien, that's true, what you said – trouble finds them.   The hobbits are totally innocent.  _Cough! Choke!_   Birch Tree, thanks for the encouragement.  More, as requested!  Kit(5), the bit about Estrella's eyes was all Marigold's.  She always knows just what is needed.  Fliewatuet, you are allowed to fancy Aragorn the most.  There's enough of him to go around.  Sunhawk, we do love to see Merry/Pip interaction, don't we?  Laura, thank you.  The best part of writing is the enjoyment other people derive from it.  QTPie-2488 – you got it exactly.  Sam would 'jump down a dragon's throat' to protect Frodo,' as Merry said.  And I _do_ admit it about the cliffhangers.  Smalldiver, I'd join SPCHR but they wouldn't have me.  And what about Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to Elves, Dwarves, Men and Wizards?  Endymion(2), you must be multi-lingual.  Thank you for enjoying the humor worked into the story.  Aratlithiel1, you knew they couldn't just bring down a pork dinner without some disaster.  LilyBaggins, I see a use ahead for "hobbit-huddles."  If I were Aragorn, I'd start tensing up immediately.  Kay, there is some justice in the world.  That brigand still got off too easily for trying to hurt a hobbit.  Hi Sam!  Okay, you and Marigold have convinced me.  The rest I'll have to think about.  Coriandra, the "wondrous" sight is coming.  Buttered-onions, how can you say that?  Sometimes I give them a whole minute or two at a time. **: )  **Baylor, I must return the compliment.  Could this be because we live with them in our heads and hearts?  And as always, my deepest thanks to Marigold for suggestions, corrections, clarifications and occasionally, threats.  Thank you to _all_ of you.)

Chapter 20:  And Out of the Fire

      "Run!" shrieked Merry again, shoving Pippin's back hard.  Still immobilized by shock, Pippin stumbled and almost went down but his cousin dragged him upright and harried him into movement.  Cloaks streaming behind them, the hobbits ran.

       Aragorn was crouching before a log he had rolled aside, one hand holding it back as Frodo and Sam peered underneath it, faces tight with distaste.  "See," the Ranger was explaining earnestly, "these grubs, pan-fried with a little flour –"  All three jerked their heads up as the two younger hobbits flew past them.  "Runrunrun_run!" shouted Merry, as they streaked past._

       Frodo straightened and glared after them, hands on hips in disapproval at this undignified behavior.  "Meriadoc Brandybuck!  What -?"

       Without a word, Aragorn snatched up both Frodo and Sam, tucking a startled hobbit under each arm, and ran.  Frodo struggled against this indignity.  "Aragorn!  What are … _Oh!"_

       As Aragorn turned sideways to dodge a tree, Frodo caught sight of the wild sow.  Over two hundred pounds of infuriated pig, tusks gleaming, little bulging eyes red with rage.  Frodo abruptly quit struggling and clutched the Ranger's arm.   "Run run _run!" he shouted in unconscious imitation of Merry._

     Aragorn ran.  But for all their size, there are few beasts faster than wild pigs, and few greater provocations to a mother than harm to her young.   Spurred on by protective instinct and unreasoning fury, the beast was gaining on them.  

     "Hold tight!" Aragorn grunted to the hobbits.  Sam and Frodo frantically looped their arms about the Man's neck and locked their legs around his waist.  Aragorn dashed under an enormous oak and caught a strong branch with both hands, using his momentum to swing himself off his feet and around the branch.  Twisting his body lithely, he spun up over the branch and readied himself to release it at exactly the right moment to land seated upon it.  Such games he had often played with his foster brothers while growing up in Imladris.  Unfortunately, childhood games did not account for the weight of two small but strong hobbits clinging to him like limpets.  Off balance, his intended nimble stop atop the branch ended abruptly when the deep bruise on his back stabbed agonizingly.  He released the branch too soon and came down hard on the branch with Frodo on his open side and Sam between himself and the trunk.  The Ranger heard a choked, agonized, _"Whufff!"_ from Sam as the hobbit impacted both branch and trunk.

      The sow knew only that the creature that had harmed her young had simply disappeared.  But the unfathomable disappearance of the larger creature revealed to her once again the two smaller ones.  With a wild squeal of pure rage, she redoubled her efforts to reach Merry and Pippin, her pinkish-brown body a blurred streak.

      The two younger hobbits did not have the option of swinging themselves up on a branch – all were out of reach.  But ahead of them loomed a rocky outcropping, small boulders tumbled down from a decaying wall of stone.  Merry reached it first and scrambled up, making sure that Pippin was right behind him, both pulling themselves up by their fingers and toes.  The sow was so close that her tusks actually grazed Pippin's backside.  Encouraged to even greater speed, the tweenager squeaked, his small cry nearly lost in the animal's outraged squeals.

     Atop the highest point, the two clutched at each other and stared down in abject terror.  The massive pig was struggling to reach them, her sharp hooves scarring the rock in her efforts.  Rock broke free and crumbled under her weight and seething rage.  She squealed again, tusked mouth opening impossibly as she sought to get at them and rip them to shreds.

     "Are you hurt?  Are you hurt?" cried Merry, pulling Pippin against him, his hands already exploring the long gash in Pippin's cloak and patting him down for injuries.  Too frightened to speak, Pippin merely clung to Merry, his gaze never wavering from the ten-score pounds of infuriated pig beneath them.

      Other voices finally penetrated their petrified haze.  Aragorn, Frodo and Sam were all shouting at them, Aragorn and Frodo waving frantically.  Sam had one hand clenched in Frodo's cloak and the other a death-grip on the bark.  Aragorn had crawled out as far as the branch would support his weight, clamped his legs around it and was waving with both arms to attract their attention.  Over the wild pig's enraged squeals, they could barely make out his words.  "Merry!  Pippin!  Are you all right?"

     Getting a little of his breath back, Merry stood up carefully on the boulder and waved back, causing the sow to lunge upwards, her hooves scrabbling on the loose rock.  Pippin cowered against his knees and Merry hastily sat down again.   "We're not hurt!" he shouted back.  He stared down into the pig's eyes as she strained again to reach them, showing her yellow chisel-sized teeth in a snarl as ferocious as any wolf's.

     Back in the oak tree, Aragorn easily caught another of the huge branches, one slightly higher and to the side of the treed hobbits, and swung himself over to it.  Once there, he eased back along the tree limb to the safety of the trunk, settled himself comfortably and drew his long legs up on the branch, oblivious to Frodo's and Sam's white-rimmed stares at the distant (to them) ground.  After ascertaining that the younger hobbits were not in immediate danger, Aragorn stretched carefully and rolled the muscles of his back.  "Never," he remarked in a conversational tone to the hobbits below him, "have I been chased by a wild pig."  Seeing their eyes drawn to him, he elaborated.   "I have walked the Wilds since I was a child, and hunted since I was large enough to draw a bow.  I have _never_ been chased by a pig.  Until this day."  To the hobbits' horror, the Ranger stood easily on the branch and took a few steps along it, one hand bracing himself slightly on a higher branch to better see their young ones.  "A simple walking party with hobbits…" he sighed deeply and continued to himself.  "_Why_ can't it be simple?  Is it _this group of hobbits, or all hobbits?  Or perhaps –"_

    "Aragorn?"

    "I should invite another group of hobbits on a walking party and see what disasters occur _then –"_

    "Aragorn?" 

     The Ranger sighed again then seemed to become aware of Frodo.  He pivoted smoothly on the branch, drawing a horrified gasp from Sam, and walked back to them.  He crouched down and stared into the hobbits' eyes.  "Why?" he asked rhetorically.  "Is our whole journey going to be like this?  Just warn me now."

     "Aragorn," returned Frodo, somewhat impatient with the Man's wool-gathering now that the initial terror had worn off, "What are we…  Sam – you're choking me…  What are we going to do?  Merry and Pippin are in dreadful trouble."

      "We could leave them there," suggested Sam, regaining enough breath to rub his side where he had involuntarily cushioned Aragorn's ascent into the tree.  Frodo's dark brows drew down and Sam sighed and kept any further opinions to himself.

    The Ranger turned himself around and settled himself against the trunk, dangling his legs over the branch.  Wincing as the bruise twinged again, he rubbed it absently then folded his arms and returned the hobbit's stare.  "I don't know, Frodo.  What are you going to do?"

    Frodo's so-blue eyes narrowed dangerously.  "Shoot it," he commanded, gesturing at the great bow slung over the Man's back.  

     Aragorn shook his head.  "She is just protecting her young, Frodo.  I will not shoot her for following her instincts.  Even if I did, there is too much food to waste.  We would have to smoke the meat, and that would take days.  No, my friend.  I am not here, remember?  The solution is up to you."

     Frodo started to stand up, recalled where he was and sat down again, clutching at the rough bark.  Seeing that the Ranger would not be budged, he closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.  "Right, then."  Very carefully, he inched to his feet, holding on to twigs and smaller branches within his reach.  Sam watched him for a moment then shut his eyes, bracing himself against the trunk as if he wished he could crawl inside it.

     "Merry!"  The bright head turned at the hail.  "Merry!  Can you and Pippin drive her off with your slings?"

     Cautiously Merry stood again, steadying himself with a hand on Pippin's head.  A moment of fumbling in their pockets then both were armed.  "Maybe.  If you help," Merry called back.    

     "Ready, Sam?" Frodo asked, testing the angle with his own weapon.  Sam gulped and aimed his sling, holding himself with his back pushed against the trunk, held there by his broad, furry feet.  Aragorn watched silently, hand on the hilt of his sword.  He had spoken truly to Frodo – he would not aid them, but if the Ringbearer or the other hobbits were in actual danger, he would certainly intervene. 

    Frodo glanced back at Sam then met his cousins' eyes, his sling already in motion.  "Now!" he shouted.

     Four small, sharp stones struck the sow with painful accuracy, peppering her flanks hard enough to draw blood.  The sow squealed and leaped straight into the air, bucking and thrashing as she came down.  Pain and startlement drove her further up the rockpile and some of the supporting stones tore loose and rolled down under her churning hooves, shaking the entire outcropping.  Merry swayed dangerously and Pippin grabbed at his breeches, pulling him back to safety.  Merry thanked his cousin with a grimace and grimly fitted another stone to his sling.  "Keep at it!" called Frodo, his own sling already delivering a second missile.

    The sow shrieked, her voice almost human in her pain and fury and indignation.  A stone from Pippin's sling impacted on her sensitive snout and the enormous pig shook her head like a dog, wincing away from the confusing barrage that came at her from two sides.  Ducking her head, she backed down off the tumbled stones and in confusion took herself off, still squealing.

     The silence that followed was broken only by hobbits panting in relief, then the soft laughter of a Man.  "Oh, well done!" commented Aragorn.  Then more soberly, "Are you two all right?" 

     "No thanks to you," grumbled Frodo, stowing his sling.  

     "Will you get us down now?" asked Sam, not quite pleading.

     Aragorn caged the branch loosely in his hands and swung himself agilely down.  Frodo allowed himself to be picked up and set gently on the ground, and Sam after him.  The stocky hobbit sat down and patted the earth in relief.

     Merry and Pippin were slower to leave their place of safety.  Merry kept watch as Pippin inched himself down, not scrambling down to join them until the other four were standing at the base of the rocks.  "I have never had to work so hard for a pork dinner," he complained.  "Let us hope that this young pig was worth all the trouble."

     "Better than grubs and termites, any road," replied Sam.

* * * * *

     It was.  Quartered and with the leftover meat sliced thinly and set to smoke, the four hobbits and the Ranger consumed their meal in dedicated silence.  In a flash of inspiration, Pippin wondered what the young pig had been rooting at and looking amongst the rocks at the base of the tree, was delighted to find a small stand of mushrooms.  These were added to the meat and under Sam's expert hand, resulted in a most delectable luncheon.

     At last the walking party sat back and sighed, wiping greasy hands on the grass and resting for a bit before bestirring themselves to wash in another of the small streams that flowed so bountifully through these lands.  

      "What do you say to a nap?" asked Pippin with a yawn.  The tweenager had wolfed his food as if he had not eaten in days and now sat back, too full even to enjoy his pipe.  Aragorn and Frodo already had theirs in use, but Merry was helping Sam finish up the pots and retie their packs.  Sam yawned hugely then put his hand over his mouth, embarrassed.  

     Seeing Merry and Frodo answer Sam with more yawns, Aragorn fought off one of his own.  They were not so far from their goal now, and Elrond had instructed him to keep the hobbits out for "for several days at least" while the Elf-lord undertook some tasks without the interference of hobbity curiosity.  They could well afford to idle away a few more hours.  "I say that is an admirable idea, Pippin.  Not here, though.  We'll leave what's left of the meat to cure but I would feel safer away from the smoke."  His gaze roved lazily over the landscape.  "There … under those fir trees.  Their drooping branches will hide us."  

     Soon the only sounds were soft breaths and gentle snores as the hobbits slept.  Aragorn took the watch and managed to stay awake only by the discipline of years spent in the Wild, where danger and death waited for the unwary and the weary.  The Ranger leaned back against a trunk and puffed at his pipe, contrasting the present ease with what he feared was to come.  'Best to let them relax,' he thought.  'Frodo did well.  They all did well.'  He removed the pipe for a moment to tap the bowl.  'It will be a most interesting Quest, at any rate.'  Stretching his long legs before him, the Ranger crossed them at the ankles and tilted his head back to enjoy the fat white clouds as they sailed the sky over his head, the soft breeze a benediction on his face.

    It was nearly two hours before the halflings awoke, confirming to Aragorn that they had indeed needed the rest.  He had risen twice and drifted on silent feet over to Frodo, checking the hobbit's breathing as he slept.  That blow on the head still concerned him, as did the blow Sam had taken when Aragorn had swung them up into the tree to escape the sow.  He had tried to examine Sam but the gardener had put him off, claiming it was just a scrape and he'd had worse before rolling down a slope.  When Aragorn had asked him when he had done that, Sam had flushed brightly and muttered something about "vegetables" and "old Maggot" and "twern't my fault" and edged away, claiming the spit wanted turning.

     As the day moved into afternoon, the shadows lengthened and the day cooled.  Aragorn had long since finished his pipe and had sat merely enjoying the day, at peace with himself and the world.  For a moment the Ranger indulged himself in the temptation to let the world pass him by, to let Middle-earth edge towards its fate without him.  Such trials ahead, such danger and deprivation … and it all depended on the slim shoulders of one small hobbit...

     Said hobbit shifted and sat up, yawning.  Frodo smiled sleepily at the silent Ranger, then nudged the softly snoring body next to him.  "Wake up, Sam."  A nudge to the other side.  "Come on, Pip.  Wake Merry up.  Get up, you slugabeds!  Don't you want to see this marvel Aragorn keeps on about?"

     Pippin groaned and murmured something that earned him another, harder poke.  "That was very disrespectful, Cousin," replied Frodo cheerfully, seemingly not greatly insulted.  "I for one wish to see this thing which is there but not there, and only at certain times."

      Food and curiosity and a strong bond, Aragorn mused.  And ale.  And good pipe-weed.  These little folk seemed so simple, so … innocent.  Until you looked into the Ringbearer's eyes and saw the memory of unimaginable pain and terror.  And the certain knowledge that more was to come, as unalterable as the turning of the world. The Ranger rose and assisted them in gathering up their packs and the smoked meat, then guided their steps once again to the South Road.

* TBC *


	21. A Meal Shared is Enjoyment Doubled

(Author's Note:  Shirebound, I suspect that you are right – Elrond will miss the hobbits.  I so enjoy how Aragorn complains about Pippin in your fics.  Firnsarnien, be assured that the 'marvel' Aragorn has been teasing the hobbits with is coming soon.  Endymion2, I don't think there is _anything_ our studly Ranger can't do.  LilyBaggins, the unfortunate sow was inspired by the installation of three 'yard art' pigs in my front yard.  They are adorable. Elwen, it was so much fun to write light-hearted Aragorn … however briefly (cough).  Grumpy, thank you – I'm glad you are enjoying the story.  Wanequelle, "Attack of the Wild Pig!" – there's a humorous short story just waiting there!  Pebbles and arabella thorne, thank you.  The poor creatures didn't deserve Merry and Pippin.  Pansy Chubb, your sense of foreboding is prophetic – but not quite yet.  QTPie-2488, thank you for picking up on Frodo's change of mind.  Distributing 'warm fuzzies' is a day well spent, I think.  Fliewatuet, thank you for telling me what parts you like – it is appreciated.  Hi, Sam!  I enjoyed the fun parts, too.  Gentle Hobbit, if I don't end with a cliffhanger, I like to close with something moving like that.  Thanks for noticing.  Baylor, it's coming!  Truly!  Savannah, the chapter gave you hiccups?  Too funny!  Aratlithiel1, humor and sorrow, seriousness and light-heartedness … I think it's called 'life…'  Bookworm2000, that's part of their appeal, isn't it?  Fionarox, I agree with you.  Simplicity of heart isn't the same as simplicity of mind.  Layla50, I am overwhelmed by your kind words.  Thank you.  Robin Gurl, yes, Marigold and camilliatook have demanded it.  But not until chapter 24 – hang in there!  Coriandra, I repeat – the 'marvel' is on its way.  Soon, I promise.  Smalldiver, the Men, Dwarves, Elves and Wizards might not agree.  But you're right, the sweet little hobbits get the most of it.  Of course, they _cause_ a lot of it…  My deepest gratitude to the ever-vigilant Marigold.  Thanks, everyone, for expressing your enjoyment of the story and following it so faithfully.)

Chapter 21:  A Meal Shared is Enjoyment Doubled

     The walking party continued on in a subdued, still slightly sleepy mood for some time, the perils and activities of the last two days leaving its mark on them in pensiveness and an unwonted silence.  But Aragorn was coming to know the hobbits well enough that he did not doubt their resilience, and indeed, he was eventually proven right.

     Pippin began it, unsurprisingly.  The tweenager's bright green-gold eyes began to light on one fascinating object then another, an oddly-colored stone; a brilliantly colored leaf, a flower, the graceful shape of a branch.  These things and more he pointed out to the others with much exuberance, until his infectious enthusiasm caught in his companions.  He gave a little crow of delight when he found a small stone with a hole drilled through it by the endless passage of wind or water, gleefully brushing off the clinging dirt and polishing it.  Then he spent quite a while holding it up to one eye and peering through it, weaving a bit as he tried to keep to the path.  "What are you doing, Pippin?" asked Aragorn after watching this peculiar behavior for several long minutes.

     Pippin reddened.  "The gaffers and gammers say that rocks with holes through them are fairy-stones.  If you look through them, you can see through any illusions the fairies have cast."

     Aragorn did not laugh at Pippin's earnest expression.  "You should keep it, then," he said gently.  "Who knows when such a thing may be of use?"  Pippin looked at him gratefully and beside him, Merry grinned up at the Ranger, pride and amusement dancing in his eyes.  Pippin slipped the stone into his coat pocket, humming under his breath.  He began singing softly, soon joined intermittently by his cousins and finally Sam.  The Ranger did not join in their walking song, but he enjoyed both it and them, marveling at their willingness to, however temporarily, put aside their fears and burdens in their simple enjoyment of the 'now.'

    The afternoon passed pleasantly and uneventfully enough, the weather crisp and clear, each breath a delight to the lungs.  The walking party's peaceful trek was enlivened by only one incident.  Pippin and Merry had disappeared and been gone just long enough for Aragorn to grow concerned.  Motioning for Frodo and Sam to rest themselves in a sheltered hollow, he followed the cousins' almost imperceptible trail.  The barely-bent grass and a single disturbed leaf indicated a meandering path that led to a large oak tree that rose in ancient majesty from the forest floor.  He topped a rise and pushed aside the thick branches that obscured his view.  On the downward side of the rise, he saw two curly heads, uncharacteristically motionless.  He followed their gaze.  The two young hobbits stood silent and still in rapt contemplation – of a honey hive. __

     Pippin already had his sling out_.  _Merry was pointing, his arm raised to indicate a slight depression in the hive where a well-placed stone would drop it.  Anticipation was in every line of their taut bodies.

     _"No!" growled the Ranger, and before the two knew of his presence, a none too gentle hand clamped down on each small shoulder and was steering them firmly back to the others._

        "We didn't do anything!" complained Pippin shrilly.

      "And you're not going to, either," returned the Ranger.  "You got me chased by a wild pig – you are _not going to get me chased by a swarm of angry bees."_

      "But the honey -" began Merry.

      "Is of more use to its makers than in your stomach, Meriadoc Brandybuck.  I forbid you to endanger all of us."

       Both young hobbits, wearing identical mulish expressions, were propelled to stand before their cousin.  Frodo looked up in surprise, his gaze traveling from their expressions to Aragorn's dark face.  Sternly the Ranger explained what the two young hobbits had been intending to their elder cousin.

      To his relief, Frodo was incensed.  He glared at them, high spots of color in his cheeks.  "How could you two even consider such a thing?  You know better than that! Those bees would be after us in a trice.  Do you enjoy being stung?  Well, do you?"  The two younger hobbits dug their toes into the grassy turf and tried to look contrite.  Aragorn rather regretted that he had gotten them into trouble with their elder_ cousin, but really, the youngsters had to learn.  "The only way is to smoke them out, "Frodo continued decisively, rising to his feet._

      "What?" said Aragorn, thinking he had misheard.  Surely he must have misheard.

     "Smoke 'em out," explained Samwise helpfully.  "Build a fire under the hive an' funnel the smoke…"

     "I _know what smoking out bees is, Sam.  We, however, are not doing it."  The Ranger's voice sounded a bit shrill to his own ears._

     Now four sets of curious eyes looked at him.  "Why ever not?" asked Frodo.  "You said we were to supply our own food.  And some honey combs…"

      "No! No no no _no!"  The Ranger flung up his arms in disbelief then spun on his heel and stalked off, muttering under his breath._

      "I must say," commented Merry to Frodo as they sauntered after him, "he's in rather a testy mood, isn't he?"

      Frodo shook his head.  "I can't imagine why."

     "He should have taken a nap, too," Pippin suggested.

     Merry shrugged, dismissing the changeable moods of Men.  "We could probably have outrun those bees, anyway._"_

* * * * *

     To Aragorn's relief, the hobbits were content to amble on until tea.  Then they pulled off into a small glade and dug out the day's foraging.  The amount of smoked meat remaining and the few greens they had gleaned along the trail seemed very inadequate.  With a sigh, Sam set about doing the best he could with the little they had.

     Merry and Pippin began a small fire and Frodo fetched water from one of the ever-present streams of this verdant valley.  After some consideration, Sam shredded the meat and put it in his stewpot along with some of the water, determined to extend their scant tea any way possible.

     Aragorn leaned back on his elbows, long legs stretched before him at the ankle, smoke curling delicately from his pipe.  Pippin plopped beside him with a deep sigh.  "That little bit of stew isn't going to go far, Strider," he moaned.  "And I'm so very, very hungry."

      "You're always hungry," retorted Merry, sounding less than pleased himself. He seated himself cross-legged on the other side of the fire.

      Pippin looked affronted.  "I'm a growing hobbit.  I –"

     "May we intrude?"

     Aragorn shot to his feet, pipe falling from his mouth, face flushing before the amused gaze of the three tall Elves who had suddenly appeared before him.  The hobbits were equally startled.  Frodo tipped over the pot of water he had been washing the greens in and it soaked Aragorn's pipe. __

     The two young hobbits scrambled to their feet and bowed along with Frodo.  Sam hastily stuck his spoon in the stewpot and wiped his hands on his cloak, his bow trailing the others.  

     "We did not mean to startle you," said the Elf who had spoken before, though amusement at their surprise was evident in his clear eyes.

     "Though one would expect more vigilance from a Ranger," said a second Elf, stepping out from where he had been partially hidden behind the first.

      "Legolas!"  

      The Prince of Mirkwood found himself surrounded by four glad faces beaming up at him and he smiled back, blue eyes sparkling with mirth.  His great bow lay across his back, and both he and his two companions had rabbits swinging from their belts.

      "Well met," replied the Elf warmly.  "Elrond said you also were taking this road.  Are you traveling to see the –"

      "Yes, we are," interrupted Aragorn, aware of pointed, attentive ears.  "But I have not told the hobbits what awaits us at the end of our walking party, Legolas, and I would appreciate it if none of you told them, either."

      The other two Elves laughed outright.  Legolas, more familiar with the halflings, smiled.  "Were I you, Aragorn, I would watch for rocks in my bedroll or poisoned ivy in my clothes.  The little ones are not pleased with you."

      "They have already frozen my heart with fear this journey," returned Aragorn.  "Most recently, a wild –"

      "Old new, old news," said Frodo hurriedly, waving his hand dismissively.  "Won't you introduce us to your friends, Legolas?"

      The Elf reclined his head gracefully, sharp eyes not missing the hobbits' relief at the change of subject.  "This is Ralolith," he said, indicating the Elf who had spoken first, "and this Lucilena."  The other Elf was a woman, they saw – it had not been immediately apparent under the tunics and leather hunting clothes all three wore.  "We have journeyed to…" Legolas teased them gently, "… to see …" the hobbits leaned forward, "…what Aragorn is taking you to see."  Pippin leaned back with an expression of disgust on his sharp face.

     "It is truly a marvel beyond words or song," continued Legolas.  "We have nothing like it in Mirkwood.   We had begun our journey home when we saw the smoke from your cook-fire."

     "We have game to contribute to the cook-pot if you wish," offered Lucilena.  A slender hand gathered up the rabbits and offered them to Sam, who accepted them with a bow and a bright red blush.  The female Elf's starry eyes twinkled in amusement at the stocky hobbit's discomfiture.

     Sam drafted Pippin to help him skin the coneys and prepare them for the pot, though the tweenager would obviously have rather sat with his elders.  His fears that they would be excluded from the conversation were needless – as one, the Elves arrayed themselves around those working instead of assuming more comfortable seats in a circle on the grass.  

     "Right quality folk, they are," Sam whispered to Pippin.  "Gracious–like."

      Pippin nodded around a mouthful of purloined smoked pork.  "Aragorn did say this was a 'well-traveled road.'  I'm glad they hunted before we met them.  There's enough here for a proper tea, at any rate."

      "We are honored to meet you at last, Ringbearer," Ralolith was saying to Frodo.  "Lucilena and I were among the escort that rode out to guard Glorfindel when he bought you to the gates of Imladris, though you would not remember.  We sent prayers to Elbereth for your recovery," he continued.  

      For a brief moment, Aragorn saw shadows mar Frodo's beautiful eyes. Then the hobbit cast them off and smiled into the Elf's deep eyes.  "Thank you," the Ringbearer replied politely.  "Lord Elrond's care of myself and my friends is a debt I can never repay."

      Ralolith shook his head, the dark braids over his sharp-tipped ears swinging gracefully.  "It is we who owe you the debt that cannot be repaid."  He raised his head and smiled at Legolas over Frodo's head.  "Lucilena and I both petitioned our lord to allow us to join your Fellowship, Master Frodo.  But for some unknown reason…" the Elf paused dramatically, "he felt this young Elf could offer you more."

      Legolas' eyes sparkled at the other's gentle teasing.  "Perhaps he did not wish to saddle the Company with an Elf so old that his bones creaked," he returned.  Frodo looked between them, placed at ease by their familiar play.  To his eyes, Ralolith and Lucilena appeared slightly older than Legolas, but not so much as to be remarked upon.  Much like himself, he mused, appearing younger than he was and kept that way by his ownership of the Ring.  Suddenly ill at ease at that thought, he turned his mind back to the conversation.  __

      Within a very short time (but long enough for growling hobbit stomachs), Sam was ladling out a fine coney stew, thick with ingredients that Lucilena and Ralolith had provided from their packs.  Aragorn took his bowl doubtfully and sniffed it, then looked accusingly at Sam.  "Carrots," he muttered.  "Onions.  Are these potatoes?"

      "I can toss some grubs an' bark in your bowl, Strider, if you want," offered Sam cheekily.  Aragorn declined.   

     The enlarged company ate in compatible silence for some time.  At last they put away their bowls, and Merry and Pippin and Sam rose to collect and wash them.  Frodo would have helped too, but Aragorn motioned for him to stay.  While the younger hobbits worked, the Ranger and the Ringbearer told the three of the men who had attacked them and of the bounty placed upon the hobbits.  Ralolith's deep brown eyes grew hooded and they glanced among themselves at the news.  "We will carry word to Elrond, Aragorn.  Are you certain you do not wish to return to the House in our company?"

      Aragorn shook his head.  "We are so close now to … to what I have promised them, that it would be a shame to turn back.  They would be greatly disappointed.  We would be grateful if you would spend the night with us, though.  The young ones did not allow Frodo and I to take our watches last night, and I know they are weary."

     "That we will do gladly," said Ralolith.

     "And, by your leave, I will accompany you for the rest of your journey," added Legolas.  "If you will have me."

      "Only if you do not allow the hobbits to talk you into hunting for them," conditioned Aragorn, but without much hope.

* * * * *

       Though it was only early evening, the travelers decided to rest here and engage in tales and songs rather than seeking a campsite a few miles closer to the walking party's destination.  Lucilena continued to produce an amazing variety and amount of food from her pack and the hobbits turned nothing down, despite Aragorn's half-hearted glowers.  Defeated, the Ranger finally gave up.

       The Elves took the watches that night, allowing the entire walking party to slumber truly and deeply.  Frodo awoke several times during the night, always to see the star-silhouetted form of a slender Elf on guard.  Reassured, he would turn over and pull the blanket up over himself and Pippin, and return to sleep.  Lucilena roused them out of their warm bedrolls just after dawn.  They washed and ate, and exchanged many fair words in reluctant farewell.  Pippin stood on a small hill and waved vigorously until Ralolith and Lucilena were lost to sight.  He sighed wistfully and slung his pack over his shoulder.

      "I do not think Aragorn meant foraging to include using great calf-eyes on our guests to divest them of anything edible they carried," reprimanded Merry.  

      Pippin shrugged, undaunted by his cousin's scolding.  Lucilena had gifted him with several boiled sweets before they parted, and the young hobbit looked like a chipmunk.  "Aragorn told us to live by our wits," he slurred around his candy-packed cheeks.  "You should not blame me because nice people want to give food to a poor hungry hobbit, whose elder cousins do not take care of him properly."

      Aragorn was torn between aggravation and laughter.  Hearing his muffled snort, Pippin looked over to him and deliberately made 'great calf-eyes' at him, to use Merry's turn of phrase.  Unable to maintain his severe countenance, Aragorn looked away.  Legolas laughed outright, a silvery peal of pure joy.   The Elf rested a slender hand upon Pippin's curly head.  "Come," he urged them.  And to Aragorn, "we have perhaps two hours to arrive in time, or must wait until dusk falls."

     Aragorn slung his pack over his shoulder, wincing slightly as it impacted against the tender bruise.  "Perhaps nothing else will impede our progress.  I have not seen … what we are going to see in a long time.  Frodo, do you think you and the others can avoid any major crisis, at least until we are on our way back?"

      The Ringbearer made a show of considering this.   "We will try, Aragorn," he said gravely, sharing an amused glance with Sam.  "But you know how things go."

* TBC *


	22. A RiddleGame And Its Answer

(Author's Note:  Sunhawk, be assured; Pippin-torture starts in chapter 24.  And thank you for the name 'hagstone!'  I knew there was another name for a fairy-stone but couldn't think of it.  Endymion2, 'studly' is Aragorn personified –yes, indeedy, yum, hummm – I'm sure you've grasped the meaning!  And re your question on Elves; I can only give you my uneducated opinion but I think Elves just stop aging at adulthood.  Smalldiver, I liked your phrase 'putty in a writer's hands' – I will combine that with thoughts of studly Aragorn and amuse myself for a while…  Helen, I fear you are right.  And the clock is ticking.  FantasyFan, you are so right about the other hobbits anchoring Frodo to the world.  He would have been lost to the Ring long before if not for them.  Hi Sam!  Welcome back.  I was tickled about your story of smiling in the judging ring.  Elbereth, I understand – me too.  It's a phobia that I've never outgrown.  LilyBaggins, that is just a wonderful visual image.  I might have to store it away in my plot-bunny hutch.  Wanequelle, how about catapulting cows?   Or shrubberies?  We MP fans are a bit cracked, aren't we?  Firnsarnien, you _finally_ get your wish.  Just before you burst, evidently. [Got a kick out of your loud disclaimers of innocence in that review!]  Bookworm2000, I bet Aragorn's next horrified thought was the months and months and months he would be spending with them on the Quest.  Elwen, at last the marvel is revealed … hope it lives up to expectations.  My thanks, as always, to the priceless Marigold for her keen eye and unmerciful wielding of a dictionary, and to all of you for following the story with such enthusiasm.)

Chapter 22:  A Riddle-Game and Its Answer

      The hobbits listened in pleasure as Legolas trilled some soft song that seemed to have no words but mimicked perfectly the twitters of birds and bubbling streams and the rustling of leaves, all bound up into a musical melody that flowed as effortlessly from the Elf as the hobbits could sing.

     The walking party continued at a leisurely pace that allowed for side-trips to investigate meandering streams (foraging for cattails), dark mossy tree-boles (hoping for mushrooms) and several of the small cliff overhangs (satisfying general hobbity curiosity) that they passed.  The knowledge that they were nearing their goal and the inclusion of Legolas in their party both reassured and delighted the hobbits.  The beautiful sunny day helped, too, and Aragorn found his own heart lifting from the dark thoughts of the previous days that had troubled him.

     The Ranger kept a clandestine eye upon the hobbits as he surveyed the surrounding countryside.  For the last mile or so, the hobbits had ceased their explorations and walked close, curly heads together in rapt, soft-voiced conversation.  Aragorn was immediately on his guard.  He had been keeping a surreptitious eye on the Ringbearer but Frodo seemed fully recovered from the blow to his head.  _Hard-headed, these halflings_, he mused.  _In many ways.   A quick movement caught his attention.  As Pippin had done the previous day, Aragorn looked down to see the Ringbearer suddenly quicken his steps and pull up at his side, flashing him a dazzling smile.  Aragorn eyed him with suspicion, thinking how much the eldest and youngest cousins resembled each other when they wanted something._

     "All right," growled the Ranger amiably, "what is it?"

      Frodo did not try to dissemble.  "You wish me to drink those disgusting tonics of Lord Elrond's, don't you, Aragorn?"

     "It would be nice to see you comply with my lord's wishes without the dramatics, yes," Aragorn responded.

     Frodo graciously let that pass.  He caught up a flower and studied it idly.  "Then I have a proposal for you."

     Feeling that he might well regret this, Aragorn cautiously replied, "What?"

     "Nothing too difficult, Aragorn."  Frodo twirled the flower in his fingers then tucked it gently into the buttonhole of his breast pocket.  "I will take Lord Elrond's foul, sickening, nauseating –"

      "I understand you dislike the medicine, Frodo."

      "Even so, I will take it from now on without complaint if you will play a riddle-game with us.  A game of my choosing."

      Aragorn mulled this over, pretending to be unaware of the eager eyes drilling into his back.  He glanced back to meet Legolas' amused gaze – elvish ears had carried their soft conversation to him perfectly.  The Elf's earlier comment about rocks in his bedroll and poison ivy stuffed into his clothing passed through the Ranger's mind.  Had the hobbits' cattail gathering also harvested a captured frog or two to slip into his boots when opportunity permitted?  Even now such could be tucked away in hobbity pocket, awaiting an opportunity.  He would not put it past them.  "Of your choosing…" he mused.  "I wonder what riddle you could possibly be thinking of."

     Frodo said nothing but he grinned and his brilliant eyes shone up at the Man.

     "You will take the tonic without complaint if I play a riddle-game with you…" the Ranger repeated carefully.  Frodo nodded enthusiastically in agreement.  "So I have only to play the game to win it?  Well, then, why should I not?"

     Frodo's mouth dropped open and he sputtered.  "No!  No, I meant –"  Beside him, Merry was visibly biting his tongue, and Sam looked confused.  Pippin stared intently at him, then his forehead suddenly smoothed out and his mouth formed a little unheard _oh_. 

     Aragorn decided to take pity on the hobbit.  He would not learn what the four were up to, else.  "Nay, I know you meant play _and win_, Frodo."  He was secretly delighted to see Frodo flush.  It was unusual to see the erudite hobbit misspeak and that he had done so showed how very eager he was to play this game. The Ringbearer had been entirely too somber these past several days; a bit of fun would do him good.  "Very well.  A game of your choosing, but played by _my rules."_

      Now Frodo looked wary.  The other hobbits edged up, all pretense of not listening intently to their conversation abandoned.  Legolas looked like he was struggling not to laugh.

      "What rules would you set?"

      "You wish to know what lies at the end of our journey."  The hobbits glanced among themselves, ending any charade that this had not been discussed among them beforehand.  "Very well.  You may each ask one, and _only_ one question.  I will give one reply to each question.  You may not press for clarifications or further explanations.  _And you may not first discuss your questions amongst yourselves.  Do you agree?"_

      Merry caught Frodo's eye and nodded.  Pippin nodded more slowly, while Sam looked unhappy.  But Frodo wasn't finished.  "If we agree to your terms, and so win by guessing this … marvel … what is our prize?"

     Aragorn thought about that and sighed.  "If you guess…  Legolas and I will supply all of the food on the way back – as much as you can eat."  An instant later he regretted that addendum, for Frodo's eyes lit up and the other hobbits practically glowed.  Aragorn groaned internally.  How could he have been so stupid as to offer _hobbits_ as much food as they could eat?  While stuffing himself would doubtless do Frodo good, Merry and Sam were bottomless pits and Aragorn feared to let Pippin's insatiable appetite even enter his thoughts.  There was no help for it – he could not allow them to win this riddle-game.

    "Is this agreeable to you, Legolas?" Frodo asked, repeating the terms carefully to ensure that he had the Elf's acceptance of the bargain.  No doubt Frodo already had plans for the Elf's deadly bow, Aragorn thought.  They had passed many signs of large game that the hobbits could not easily bring down with their small slings.  Legolas raised an amused eyebrow_, _also well aware of theRingbearer's maneuverings.  He said nothing but inclined his head slightly.

     "A deal, struck!" proclaimed the Ranger with a grin.  "The first question is Pippin's, then."

     Pippin was so startled he almost stumbled – as the youngest, he had not expected to go first.  Merry jerked his chin at his cousin and the tweenager inched up hesitantly to join Frodo and Aragorn as they walked. 

      "What is your question, Pippin?" 

     Pippin gulped – he had not had time to prepare.  "Er … um…"  Aragorn waited patiently, his cousins and Sam not so patiently.  "Is it bigger than a breadbox?" the young one asked desperately, then flushed with embarrassment.

      "A good question, Pippin."  Pippin looked encouraged, his green-gold eyes fastened on the Ranger's face.  Aragorn made a great show of considering his reply.  "The answer is yes."  Pippin broke into a broad smile.  But the Man wasn't finished.  "And no.  And sometimes it isn't there at all."  Pippin choked, swallowing back the additional questions that leaped to his lips.__

    "Sam?"

     Now Sam came forward and walked with them instead of rambling behind.  Aragorn had spent enough time with the stocky gardener to know that underneath that mild round face lurked a quick and practical mind.  Sam might not have the cousins' gentle-born education or social graces, but he possessed an abundance of 'good hobbit-sense' and Aragorn sometimes thought he valued that the more.

     "Is it alive?"  

     The Ranger was silent for so long that even Legolas seemed about to make a comment.  At last Aragorn said, "Define 'alive.'"

     It was Sam's turn to look started.  "Well," he began hesitantly, "does it move about?  Does it –"

     "Enough," said Aragorn crisply.  "I will answer only the question defined.  Yes, it moves.  But it is not alive."

     "You mean it's dead, then?" asked Sam.  "But –"

     "You have had your question, Samwise.  Merry?"

     Merry had been watching and listening silently and Aragorn could almost see the thoughts flowing through that quicksilver mind.  When the young hobbit spoke, his words were slow and considered.  "You have said repeatedly that we must be in a certain place at a certain time to see this … thing.  Why is that?"

     Ah, he would have to be careful of his answer.  Merry had consistently shown himself to possess the quickest mind of the hobbits and Aragorn would not underestimate him.  "It moves and exists only twice a day, a few hours after dawn and at dusk, as the world wakes and yawns and stretches, and as the cycle repeats itself at dusk, preparing the world for sleep."  _There, young sir, chew on that! _

     Now it was Frodo's turn, and Aragorn did not drop his guard.  Frodo was extremely intelligent and well-read, more introspective than Merry perhaps but also a logical thinker.  "Frodo?"

     The Ringbearer was silent for long moments and Aragorn wondered if he were contemplating the price of failure.  The distasteful expression on his features certainly suggested it.  Frodo swallowed.  Then he said, "May I have a little time to consider your answers?"

     Legolas met Aragorn's eyes over Frodo's head then those clear eyes grew unfocused and his head tilted to the side, pointed ears attentive_. The Elf shook his head slightly.   Aragorn nodded to show he understood.  "That was not agreed upon.  The questions have been asked and the answers given, except for yours.  You must give your question now."_

     "Why?" asked Frodo, frustration and a certain panic evident in his tone.  "What difference would it make?"

     "Is that your question, Frodo?"

     "No!"  The hobbit inhaled and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to glare up at the Ranger.  "No, it isn't.  Very well, if you will not be reasonable…"  he paused but Aragorn only continued to regard the hobbit levelly.  "All _right_!  My question is this:  Does it make a sound andifso, whatisit?"

     Aragorn laughed.  "I do not think that is one question, Frodo, despite your attempt to make it so.  Yes, it makes a sound.  And the sound is this."  Aragorn stopped walking and turned back to face them.  Legolas had been staring into the distance past them, a faint frown on his face that was replaced by an enigmatic smile as the Ranger brought them to a halt.  Aragorn leaned down so that his face was level with Frodo's and looked into the halfling's eyes.  Then he inhaled deeply, opened his mouth and howled, "RRRRRuuummmmmmMMMMHHaaaHHHH!"  The Ranger's voice had been rising throughout and the last was delivered in an ear-splitting roar.

      Pippin blanched and staggered back a step, eyes widening.  Merry wordlessly halted him by grabbing his coat sleeve, brow furrowed as his blue eyes bored into the Man's.  All of the hobbits stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses.  Well satisfied with these reactions to his answer, Aragorn smiled at them blandly.  "What is your answer to the riddle, Frodo?"

      Frodo's dark brows drew together and he looked at his companions desperately, as if they could somehow place the answer in his mind.  Sam and Merry and Pippin stared back.  Merry spread his hands and shrugged.  "Frodo," Aragorn pressed.  The hobbit looked trapped.  "Frodo, do you forfeit?"  

     "I forfeit," the hobbit gritted out through clenched teeth.  "You win, Aragorn.  I forfeit."

     Aragorn threw back his head and laughed, echoed by Legolas.  "Remember, the riddle-game was your suggestion!  And your forfeit will be to your advantage, really, as Elrond's tonics will do you nothing but good."  Frodo did not look mollified, glaring at him furiously.

     "You may take the next dose at our destination, Frodo.  And in honor of our arrival, Legolas and I will provide the next meal.  Come – we are almost there."

     The hobbits trailed after the Man, heads close together in intense discussion.  Legolas moved from the rearguard position to join the Ranger.  "That was close, my friend.  Did they have an Elf's hearing, your riddle-game would be lost." __

     "And you and I would be obligated to feed four hobbits who have suffered short rations for several days, my friend.  You have not had to supply these little folk with food, as I did from Bree to Rivendell.  I fear we will be hunting for them constantly on our Quest."  Aragorn smiled and picked up the pace a little.  "Their hearing is exceptional – better than men's.  But they have nothing like this in their gentle land of the Shire.  Even did they hear, they would not know what to make of the sound."

      Legolas shrugged gracefully.   "They might take issue of your last clue, though."

      Aragorn glanced at the Elf in amusement.  "Could you have imitated the sound better?"

     "Actually … no."

     "Then do not criticize.  I did the best a man could."

     The six walked on in relative silence for some time, enjoying the peace of Imladris.  The ground was becoming both rougher and steeper, the gentle grass giving way to loose soil and shale that slid underfoot.  The increasingly rocky earth began to slope uphill, and the walkers were forced to lean forward, climbing with their packs near to overbalancing them.  Aragorn kept watch on the sun's position in the sky, and urged them to speed their steps.

     "Here?" he asked Legolas when the six had crested the steep hill. 

     "It is a good place," agreed the Elf.  "Much closer would be dangerous."

      To the hobbits' amazement, Aragorn shrugged off his pack and dropped beside it.  Legolas was already on the ground, seated comfortably cross-legged with his long hands on his knees.   The hobbits glanced amongst themselves then sank to the earth, leaning against their packs or each other as was convenient.  

     Four pairs of eyes stared at the blank plain before their eyes.  The ground sloped down again, more gently on this side, to a featureless vista that seemed to hold little to commend it.  A few straggly trees grew here and there, oddly misshapen and twisted.  The hobbits examined the desolate area with confusion, then turned to the two Big People with expressions that asked, "Well?" far more eloquently than words.

     "Patience," the Ranger counseled them.

     Then Legolas raised his head and Aragorn knew that the Elf's superior hearing had warned him.  Unable to resist the impulse to tease them one last time, he swiveled back to the hobbits and said, "Hush!  It comes."

      Merry bit his lip, his brow furrowed as he sought for movement among the little mounds of earth and small stones that were the only items of interest on the barren ground.  Then he became aware of a trembling under his hands … the merest vibration of the earth.  Merry placed his palms flat against the cool earth and tried to understand what he was feeling.

     Catching his sudden concentration, Merry's cousins and Sam imitated his tense posture, hands pressed flat to the earth.  In the brief seconds that had passed, the vibration had grown.  Sam shifted nervously as the quivering sensation crept up his backbone.  They could hear it now, too.  A wordless, rumbling roar, the sound of great waters being condensed and pushed and funneled…

      "An underground river," whispered Merry.  "A huge one, by the sound of it.  But what -"

     "Patience," the Ranger repeated.  Merry fell silent and turned his attention to the increasing movement under him.  Tiny stones and bits of earth were beginning to shake and rattle, working loose from their places to slide to lower ground in tiny cascades of earth.  The hobbits crept closer to each other, not liking the untrustworthiness of the formerly dependable ground.

    The explosion, when it came, was so violent that the hobbits were almost flattened backwards to the earth_.  _Had they been standing, they would have been_ knocked from their feet__.  Their cries of surprise and terror were lost in a roaring canopy of enveloping sound as a massive jet of water burst from a small hole in the rocky ground and was funneled upwards into the sky.  Aragorn was shouting something, a reassurance perhaps, but they could not hear him.  Legolas had sensibly clamped his hands over his ears._

     The waters rose and rose in a single massive column, throwing out great plumes of white-laced water as it grew.  The pillar flattened and spread out at the crown, fountaining off to fall to the earth again with crashes that made the ground shudder.  Though they were far from it, cold mist kissed their faces and dewed their eyes till the sight shimmered before them and forced them to rub away the clinging drops.

     At last the great column reached its zenith, thundering into the sky, appearing   to near-touch the base of the clouds.  Almost immediately upon gaining its height it began to sink, the column narrowing, the deafening roar decreasing.  It continued its reduction until there was nothing to be seen but a little fountain no taller than a man, then a hobbit and then it was gone.  Little rivulets of water swept down from the hole and were absorbed back into the earth.

    _"Oh," murmured one of the hobbits.  Aragorn could not tell which one, for his ears had not quite recovered.  He had truly forgotten how loud the geyser was.  Turning in place to see their faces, he knew that he had been forgiven his teasing.  The halflings sat transfixed, mesmerized, their eyes round with wonder._

     With a visible effort, Frodo shut his mouth.  Pippin had both arms wrapped around Merry and was staring at the spot where the thing had appeared and then disappeared, dumbfounded.  Sam coughed nervously.  Merry finally spoke for them all.  "What was that?"

    "It is a geyser, my friends," Aragorn told them gently, understanding of their fear and awe.  "The underground river pools in fissures and fractures deep in the earth and waits there, compressed by rock and heat.  Twice a day the pressure and high temperature of the deep earth becomes too much, and the steaming waters seek an outlet.  It has been here, erupting faithfully, since before the ending of the Second Age."

      Frodo_ swallowed, eyes still fastened to the little mound of earth that had birthed the geyser and then taken it back.  "I understand the answer to the riddle-game now, Aragorn.  I have read of such things in Bilbo's books.  I never dreamed that I would see…"  The Ranger watched as the Ringbearer sought for words.  Pippin and Sam still stared, stupefied, while Merry's brow was furrowed again.  No doubt pondering how the power of the great water could be harnessed to serve some need of his folk, Aragorn thought.  _

     "May we stay and see it again this eve?" whispered Pippin.  

     Aragorn nodded.  "A day of rest would be welcome.  We will watch again tonight and start for home in the morning."  He laughed then, delight shining from his eyes at their astonishment and amazement.  Nothing less than a true spectacle would render them so silent and still and it pleased him that he had brought them such pleasure.  Legolas slanted his eyes over at his old friend, amusement sparkling in his gaze.  

     "Thank you for bringing us here, Aragorn," Frodo murmured.  His voice dropped almost too low to be heard.  "What a wondrous place is Middle-earth." 

* TBC *


	23. Things That Are True

Author's Note:  Gentle Hobbit, a "Budgie Moments" file doesn't sound silly at all.  I'm flattered.  And Congratulations for guessing the riddle!  Bookworm2000, I suspect we would soon be willing to strangle them.  I'm always amazed that Aragorn didn't daydream about it.  Endymion2, the geyser was loosely based on "Old Faithful" in Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming.  Coriandra, Aragorn should have known that no hobbit will turn down food – he certainly will by the end of the Quest.  Wanequelle and Aratlithiel1, I think Aragorn deliberately made his answers vague – not cheating actually, but faced with taking a loss and feeding the hobbits all they could eat, he may have … well … provided less helpful answers than he could have.  Sunhawk, Merry is perhaps easiest for me to write as I think we are much alike.  Thank you for the compliment and you go ahead and cheer for Pippin-angst!   LilyBaggins, I suspect that Frodo will hold to his word, but do a lot of glaring.  Layla50, what nice things to say!  Thank you!  Firnsarnien, now, now, no bursting into flames.  Though you would pick a good place for it in the upcoming chapter [spoiler alert!].  Elbereth, I would have lost, too.  At least we would be in good company.  Helen, would I do that – "lull you into a false sense of security?"  [author coughs and hurriedly changes subject]  Shire Baggins, remember, the hobbits have never seen a geyser in "their gentle land" to quote Aragorn.  It's a good bet that Aragorn was counting on that.  Dragonfly, your estimate of the walking party making it back to Rivendell without incident is probably pretty on-target… QTPie-2488, I think Pip is quite aware of how adorable he is, and is _not_ above taking advantage of it.  And thank you for the compliment on my characterizations.  Smalldiver, I actually waffled back and forth between that and the thought I chose for Aragorn.  Smoking and eating – two major components of hobbit-life.  Elwen, I've never seen a geyser either, so we all went on that journey together.  Robin Gurl and buttered-onions, take a deep breath now.  It starts in the next chapter … poor little Pippin…  Baylor, he's shameless, isn't he?  It's rather fun to watch Pippin wrap them all around his little finger.  Lady Eleclya, if you knew the surprise had to do with water, you were doing very well.   Liptonrm, welcome!  I'm sure Lord Elrond feels the same way.  Just when you thought you'd seen it all – along come hobbits!  Sam, check out the Author Alert selection in FF.Net – it (usually) sends you an email when your chosen authors post.  Birch Tree – Marigold and Sam are making me do it!  Thanks everyone, for expressing your enjoyment of this story, and to Marigold for her tireless beta-ing and for her lyrical, lovely description of the fireworks.)

Chapter 23:  Things That Are True

    True to his word, Aragorn, with Legolas' assistance, supplied elevenses with enough meat left over to sustain a party of Men for several meals or a party of hobbits for one.  Working out meals had merited the most discussion early on during the walking party – Man and hobbits did not agree on how many meals were to be stopped for, nor how often.  The hobbits had perhaps become a bit spoiled by the generously laden tables of Rivendell.  They were resistant to returning to the sparse fare they had subsisted on between Bree and the elven sanctuary.  A compromise had finally been reached – the hobbits ate whenever they felt like it, but insisted on sit-down meals for first breakfast, luncheon, tea and dinner.  The other meals they would take standing up, or more accurately, walking.  Legolas watched the halflings' attempts to continue negotiations even at this late stage of their journey with thinly veiled amusement.

     It was after luncheon, as the entire party save Legolas were drifting peaceably towards a nap, that Merry asked Aragorn to examine his broken wrist.  "It hardly aches at all any more, Aragorn," Merry wheedled.  "Will you take off the splint?"

     "Let me look at it, Merry," the Ranger responded.  Merry plopped himself down by the Man and leaned comfortably against him, holding out his arm.  Pippin drifted over to watch, sitting down across from the two.  Sam watched too, cushioned comfortably against a pack.  Frodo was already asleep, wrapped in his cloak and a blanket Sam had laid over him, a grimace of distaste from the tonic still visible on his features.

     Taking the small wrist, Aragorn unwrapped the bandages and removed the sticks that had held the broken bone straight while it healed.  Then he had the hobbit rotate his wrist and squeeze his hand, feeling the play of muscles and tendons underneath the skin. 

     That done, Aragorn released the wrist to its owner and sat back with a smile.  "I pronounce you healed, Merry, though you should not strain that arm for a while yet.  Try not to fall into any more rivers, won't you?"

      Rubbing his wrist, Merry sought to look offended.  "I wouldn't have fallen in if I hadn't slipped going after those trout.  I wouldn't have gone after the trout if I hadn't been trying to catch breakfast.  I wouldn't have been trying to catch breakfast if I hadn't been hungry.  Very hungry."  The last was delivered with a cocked eyebrow and rather a lot of cheek.

     Aragorn refused to be baited.  "It is my hope that you have spent this time away from Rivendell learning other ways to feed yourself, my friend."  He smiled to himself as he remembered Elrond's request that he keep the hobbits away from Imladris for several days.  Had his foster father had enough time to accomplish his purpose, he wondered? 

     "Bugs an' bark," muttered Sam, then tried to look as if he hadn't spoken when the others looked at him.  Sam coughed then laid himself down by his slumbering master with his back to them and ignored their amused glances and Pippin's giggle.

       "We could all use some rest," the Ranger remarked.  "Legolas, will you take the watch?"

      "I will," agreed the Elf.

      Merry nudged Pippin down next to Frodo's other side and laid himself on the outside of their little line.  Aragorn dropped off to the sight of Legolas leaning on his great, unstrung bow, standing guard over the small pile of curls and furry feet and jostling elbows, his clear gaze watching over them all.

* * * * *   

     "What are you doing, Pippin?"  Pippin jumped at the Elf's soft voice, fumbling to hide the little object he had been toying with.  He often awoke before his elderly kin and Sam, and it was a sore trial to the young hobbit to stay still and quiet and let the others rest.   He tried to be considerate but his youthful energy often betrayed him.  Too much exuberance would earn him the others' censure, especially from Sam if he woke Frodo.

       Pippin gladly accepted the arm up that pulled him from his sleeping place and set him on his feet a little way away from the others.  Aragorn slept on, more deeply than was usual for him, relaxed and trusting of Legolas' guard.  A little abashed, the tweenager held up his fairy-stone for the Elf's inspection.  Legolas took the small stone and peered through the hole in its center as he had seen Pippin do, then looked inquiringly at the hobbit.

       "It's a fairy-stone," Pippin offered, embarrassed to be reciting a nursling-tale to the immortal Elf.  But Legolas, like Aragorn, did not laugh at him.

      "Indeed?" remarked the Elf. 

       Pippin nodded vigorously.  "It shows you things that are true." 

       Legolas accepted this equitably.  With the stone still to his eye, he looked through it at the surrounding Wild, a slight smile tugging at his lips.  Then Pippin saw him stiffen, his entire body frozen into immobility.

      "What is it?" the youngster asked, reaching up to tug on the Elf's arm in sudden trepidation.

      Legolas did not reply for a moment.  He took the stone away from his eye and examined it intently, then raised it again to gaze through it.  Pippin followed his line of sight.  The Elf was looking at his fellow hobbits.  No, thought Pippin, he was looking at Frodo.

      "Pippin," Legolas murmured.  "Look.  Do you see?"

      Pippin took the stone from Legolas in bewilderment.  He held the stone up and stared through it at his cousin.  Frodo lay facing them, dark curls straggling into his eyes, fine-boned face slack in sleep. Then he looked back at the Elf in confusion.

      "Look closely, young one," whispered the Elf.

      Pippin set the stone back to his eye and closed the other, peering intently.  Then he inhaled softly and leaned forward.  "He's glowing.  Frodo is glowing," Pippin whispered in wonder.

      "Shining, rather," corrected Legolas softly.  "As a moonbeam through a silver cloud."

      Pippin raised the fairy-stone again.  A soft light enveloped his cousin, shining most strongly from his face and the single hand that lay outside the blanket.  As he watched, Frodo twitched slightly and moved his arm away from before his chest.  Now Pippin saw that something dark lay on his breast.  Something black and altogether evil.  That blackness was very small now, but it would grow.  It would grow and devour the gently shining light that was his cousin.  Pippin knew this with all of his heart and ever fiber of his being.

      "Oh," he murmured, tears starting from his eyes.  Then his sight was blocked and Legolas gently pulled the stone away.  The Elf sank down before the young hobbit, kneeling before him with a long hand on the tweenager's shoulder. The Elf's eyes were shadowed and Pippin knew that he, too, had seen the malignant pit of darkness.

      "Pippin, you must say nothing," said Legolas, raising his hand to stroke the hobbit's soft curls gently.  

      "But… he's got to take it off.  Put it somewhere.  Not wear it, at least!"

      "He must wear it, little one.  It must be borne.  And by its appointed Bearer."

     "Legolas, it will kill him."  Pippin could barely speak around the lump in his throat.  Suddenly his chest hurt, and he could not seem to draw in enough air.  He wanted to scream and shout and hammer on the ground in his distress, and it took all of his self-control to refrain and keep his voice low.

       "That is what we are here to prevent, Pippin."  Legolas sorrowed for the pain on the small one's face.  The little halfling stared up at him, the threatened tears now coursing down his cheeks.  "We will shelter him from it as much as we can."  Legolas folded the stone into Pippin's hand and placed it against the young hobbit's heart.  "He will need every ounce of protection we can give him." 

     "But … but Merry and Sam and I … we can't protect him.  We can't –"

     "Pippin…  Your job, little one, is not to defend him physically.  Leave that to Gandalf and Aragorn and Boromir and Gimli and myself.  You and Merry and Sam have the more important task."

     "More important?" Pippin whispered, struggling to understand.

     The Elf nodded, his thumb brushing the tears from the young hobbit's cheeks.  "Yes.  It is up to you three to keep him grounded.  To remind him who he is, of what is at stake, through all the troubles that are coming.  Your presence is what will keep him sane … keep the darkness you just saw from consuming him."

     "But…" Pippin whispered.

     "Pippin?"  Both twitched at the interruption of Frodo's worried voice.  Turning, Pippin saw that his cousin had risen up on his elbow, blinking sleepily, his face tight with concern.  "What's wrong, my dear?"

     Uncaring that Sam and Merry still slept, Pippin threw himself on his cousin with a shout, first hugging him tight and then tickling him furiously.  Startled but game, Frodo fought back, trying to pin his little cousin with a hand around the tweenager's mouth to stifle his giggling.  "Hush!" he scolded.  "You will wake –"   A groan sounded from one of the others, followed by an _"oof"_ as a thrashing brown-clad elbow dug into Sam's midsection.  "Pippin did it," Frodo managed, then clamped his hand tighter over his cousin's mouth when Pippin squealed in denial.  Then all four hobbits were rolling about on the ground, laughing hysterically as quick fingers sought ticklish ribs and feet and the backs of knees, wrapping them up in a tangle of blankets.  Aragorn had shot to his feet at Pippin's first shriek, sword in hand, staring wildly about him.  The Elf met his startled gaze and made placating motions, directing the Ranger's eyes to the four-way melee now in progress.  Aragorn sighed and sheathed his sword, reconciled to the peculiarities of hobbits – and tweenagers.

     In his sudden battle to defend himself from tickling fingers and return Pippin's attack, Frodo quite forgot to ask his young cousin what had upset him so before.   And when the Ringbearer noticed Legolas rise to draw a resigned Aragorn away to speak with him, he thought nothing of it, being too busy urging Merry to sit on Pippin so that he and Sam could tickle his young cousin's feet. 

      Pippin kept close to Frodo for the entire afternoon, declining even to accompany Merry on a mushroom-hunting expedition.  Merry and Frodo both were surprised at that, but Pippin remained adamant.  Sam looked from one cousin to the other, catching the tweenager's underlying tension, which had not abated even after the energetic exercise.  

     If Frodo took a stroll, Pippin went with him.  If Frodo waded into one of the streams, so did Pippin.  When he went over to prod the earth-mound (after Aragorn assured him it was safe to do so) and got down on his hands and knees to try to peer into it, a small shadow accompanied him.  Matters came to a head sometime later when Frodo sought a little privacy behind a convenient tree.

       "Pippin!  By Elbereth!  Go _away_!"  Pippin waited faithfully, back turned, and rejoined his aggravated cousin as soon as Frodo emerged.

       Legolas had watched in silence until this incident.  "Will you speak to Pippin, Aragorn?  I tried, but I do not think it helped.  I believe the young one intends to stay firmly fixed to his cousin's side from now on."  A slight smile quirked Legolas' lips, though his gaze remained troubled.  "By doing so, he will surely alert Frodo of his fears and worsen the situation."

      The Ranger was silent for some moments, his deep-set eyes on the peaceful foursome. The hobbits were engaged in watching the clouds drift across the cobalt sky, talking amongst themselves quietly.   Pippin leaned against Frodo's updrawn legs, head resting back on his elder cousin's knees, while Sam sprawled comfortably at his master's side and Merry lay on his back, his head cushioned on Pippin's thigh.  Merry was waving his hands about and the other three were listening intently.  Was the young hobbit describing some grandiose scheme, Aragorn wondered, or plotting some further mischief to spring on his unsuspecting guardians? 

      "I do have something that should distract young Pippin, at least until he comes to terms with this," Aragorn responded at last, coming to a decision. 

* * * * *

     Dinner was a joint effort, with Frodo (assisted by Pippin) and Merry proudly adding two rabbits that their snares had caught to their supply of meat.  Sam brought down a passing grouse with his sling and stuffed it with the mushrooms Merry had foraged, wild garlic and two leftover parsnips.  Legolas shot a high-flying duck, and Aragorn contributed his share by returning with an arm full of cattails, from which he taught the hobbits to make a bread-like paste by splitting the brown pulp and mashing it, then frying the dough in one of Sam's frypans.  Not half bad, was Sam's surprised verdict.                

      Pippin helped Sam wash the cookpots and spoons, all the while keeping Frodo in his sight as the Ringbearer and his other cousin washed the plates and mugs.  When Sam would have put out their small cook fire, Aragorn asked that he bank it instead.  Then Aragorn called them to him and the entire party trooped up to the rise again to enjoy the marvelous display of nature.

      This time the setting sun shone through the great fountain, casting sparkling rainbows through the lacy streams of falling water.  The sun itself shone red through the water, painting the roaring column so that it looked like a geyser of blood.  When Merry casually commented on the strange effect, Pippin shivered and wiggled closer to Frodo, all enjoyment gone from his eyes.  

     They watched the waters retreat in awed silence.  Then Aragorn leaned forward, drawing their attention to him.  "As we must start back tomorrow, I think we should celebrate our successful walking party.  What would you say to some of Gandalf's fireworks?"

      The hobbits gaped at him.  "But you said -" Pippin began.

      "Yes, Pippin," the Ranger interrupted gently.  "But we made allowances for different circumstances.  The color of the rocket set off first carries a message.  We will set off this one first," and so saying drew from his pack a long rocket with a white ribbon tied around it.  "It was agreed that if the watcher in Rivendell saw the white rocket first, Elrond would know that we are not in danger, and are simply enjoying ourselves."

      Gandalf had given Aragorn six rockets.  The hobbits were beside themselves to find that in addition to the one with the white ribbon, there was a firework for each of them, made especially as a gift from Gandalf.   _Frodo, _Meriadoc_, __Peregrin and __Samwise were written on the ribbons in the wizard's distinctive__ script__.  The sixth had a plain gray ribbon.  One by one, Aragorn tied them to long sticks he had saved for the purpose and stuck the sticks upright into the ground, then set them off with tapers from the rekindled cook fire.  The white one was first.  High it arced into the black night and exploded in a shower of brilliant silver stars.  The hobbits laughed in joy and clapped their hands.  But that was nothing compared with what was to come._

      As eldest of the cousins, the next rocket to be set off was Frodo's.  It rose into the sky on a tail of brilliant blue and detonated into a great column of fire with a bang that momentarily deafened them, then cascaded down in perfect imitation of the wondrous geyser that had brought them to this place.  Almost they could feel the gentle mist upon their faces.  Merry's was next, and the night sky was suddenly filled with fluttering birds of gold with turquoise wings and the sound of singing lingered on the air long after the bright sparks had faded.  The third was Pippin's.  Red apples and emerald leaves rained down upon them, and the sound it made was of his own familiar high laughter carried from afar on a rush of wind.  Sam's was a waterfall of blossoms, crimson and pink and purple and all shades in between, and the scent of flowers drifted down to their upturned faces.  Tears of delight and disbelief streamed down the hobbits' faces that Gandalf himself had prepared such a gift for each of them.  This was an honor akin to the dragon-rocket that Gandalf had prepared for Bilbo's last Birthday Party, and it spoke volumes of their place in the old wizard's heart.  From the looks in their eyes, Aragorn knew that that this memory would be cherished in their hearts long after the last ashes had drifted on the wind to the Sea.   

      Aragorn had saved the one tied with a gray ribbon for last.  With great ceremony, he tied the rocket to the last of the sticks and thrusting it into the ground, lit it.  The rocket disappeared into the night and this time the watchers could not see the spark-trail of its ascension.  The sky remained blank and dark, and the hobbits looked at each other in dismay.

      "Did it fail?" asked Pippin, unable to conceive of one of Gandalf's fireworks doing so, especially after the grand display they had already witnessed.

       Then the black sky exploded with color.  This rocket carried all the shades of the rainbow they had seen formed earlier that eve by the geyser, and all of the colors of each of their individual fireworks.  Yellow, red, blue, green and purple, in smaller then larger bursts of brilliant showers, the rocket filled the night with starbursts of glowing sparks that seemed to go on an eternity. 

       The hobbits cried aloud in joy, inarticulate shouts of glee and astonishment.  Legolas watched with his starry eyes, storing the sight forever in his perfect memory.  Next to him, Aragorn also marveled in silence, but his mind was turned towards the future, to a time when he might ask the wizard for such a display to celebrate another event.  At last the fire-trails dimmed and died and the sky was unadorned once more, save for the shining of the stars.  The walking party sighed in bliss and went to their bedrolls, the joyous sparks reflecting still in their eyes and in their hearts.

* TBC *   


	24. Disaster Strikes

(Author's Note:  My thanks to Marigold for two reasons in addition to her beta-ing – for providing this scenario when I couldn't bear to do it, and for pushing me to venture into new territory and so (I hope) expand my writing skills.  Sam, you too.  Eiluj, you won't get your knuckles rapped for guessing, and you do get a virtual brownie point for getting it right.  Firnsarnien, you are so right about Frodo's "glow" – I guess I don't want people to forget that.  Aratlithiel1, what a good idea about the fairy-stone!  I might just seize it and run.  Liptonrm, Pippin is a joy to write because he has so much learning and maturing to do.  He sure gets a chance soon.  Sunhawk, I scanned Pippin's fairy-stone and will try to upload the photo to my FF.Net profile for a while, so you can see it.  We find inspiration in the oddest things, don't we?  Bookworm2000, I think it was the thought that Gandalf put into designing and making each firework.  I know he loves the hobbits deeply.  Gentle Hobbit, how succinctly you sum up the thrusts of the chapter … thank you.  Lindelea, you caught me out!  LilyBaggins, Marigold wrote the description of the fireworks, and I agree, each was perfectly tailored to each hobbit.  Kit5, Merry broke his wrist in an unfortunate accident during a scouting trip with Aragorn, some weeks ago.  And forgive me my use of the word 'torture' – it is too strong a word; angst would be better.  I assure you it isn't gratuitous – Pippin must grow and learn to rely on himself.  Wanequelle, that was meant to be very sad, but not to the point of tears.  There is so much sorrow among the joy in _LotRs_.   QTPie-2488, you really know how to make my day – thank you.  Endymion2, I worried too that Aragorn might be unwise in using all the fireworks, and fear he might regret it.  But he thought it necessary.  Coriandra, as to your question of what's in store for them on the way back … keep in mind Pippin seeing Frodo's "glow" and the fireworks.  Arabella thorne, thank you.  You don't need to worry about the story ending in the near future  … I was thinking of wrapping the story up but it won't let me until certain things are accomplished and learned and prepared.  So we continue the journey…)    

Chapter 24:  Disaster Strikes

       Aragorn and Legolas roused the hobbits quite some time after dawn, allowing them to sleep late in recognition of their late bedtime the previous night.  There was barely time to wash and eat before they again settled down together on the small rise to watch the geyser.  The wonder was no less for seeing it again.  The six watched, transfixed, as the great fountain rose from the ground with an ear-splitting roar and achieved its peak then slowly sank back into the quivering earth.  They scrubbed the clinging droplets from their faces and shook them from their hair.  Pippin, by dint of great effort, managed to shake most of his onto Merry. It was time at last to begin the journey home.

       The hobbits turned their faces north with both gladness and sorrow.  Several days in the Wild, on short rations, had reminded them of the luxuries of Elrond's House.  Hobbits are comfort-loving creatures, and they were eager to return to soft featherbeds and warm hearth-fires and dinner tables straining under the weight of well-cooked food.  But the short journey had invigorated them, too, and filled them with hope that this mission-thing they were undertaking would succeed.  Realistically, the hobbits knew that their upcoming journey would be no cheerful walking party, but hobbits love the feel of soft earth under their feet and the smell of dew on leaves and the wonder of seeing new things, and to their surprise, they found they were eager for the Adventure to begin.

      Legolas was relieved to see that young Pippin had relaxed his vigilance over his eldest cousin somewhat, allowing Frodo to be out of his sight for moments at a time.  Frodo was befuddled but tolerant of the tweenager's sudden clinginess, while Merry and Sam were frankly mystified.  The Elf would watch as every now and then, Pippin would dig out his fairy-stone and peer at his cousin, then quickly transfer his gaze about him in apparent fascination if one of his fellow hobbits cast an amused glance his way.  "Best keep your eyes on the path, little one," the Elf advised gently after Pippin had become so involved in looking through the stone that he walked straight into a prickle-bush and the whole party halted while Pippin was sat down and a cousin attended to each foot, pulling thorns (not very gently) out of his curly foothair.

      Aragorn and Legolas walked slowly, bows swinging at their backs, allowing the four smaller members of the party to explore as they would and freely indulge their curiosity.  Aragorn was pleased to see much of what he had taught them put to use; the hobbits' gathering-sacks bulged with sweet marsh-grasses, nuts, late berries, and all manner of the bounty of the Wild.  No insects, however, he was amused to note.  Teaching the hobbits survival food-gathering was rather like teaching a duck to swim, the Ranger reflected.  They absorbed all he had to teach them then built on that knowledge with (to quote Sam) pure 'hobbit-sense'.   He was glad, for someday they might become separated from himself and the Company and each other, and he feared for them on their own in dark and hostile lands such as they in their innocence could not imagine.

      "What troubles you, my friend?"  Legolas' soft voice in his ear startled the Ranger out of his ruminations.  He glanced over to the side to see the Elf's clear gaze upon him.  "You walk with furrowed brow and dark expression," Legolas elaborated.  

      Aragorn smiled faintly, recalled to the present by the Elf's concern.  "Worrying about the future, my friend, which avails me nothing.  Our upcoming journey will no doubt present enough challenges without my inventing imaginary ones."

      "Yet it is best to be as prepared as possible," Legolas commented.  "It was wise of you to take the little folk to see the geyser.  The walk has done them good, as well as lifted their spirits."

      "And gave Elrond a few days of peace, which he requested most adamantly," Aragorn responded.  

      Legolas covered a laugh with a cough, his clear eyes sparkling with mirth.  "I cannot comment on that, of course," the Elf said diplomatically.  "But it is certainly true that Imladris is much quieter … and less interesting … when the two youngest halflings are absent."     

       Aragorn's gaze swept about him, seeking the hobbits.  Underground streams that joined the powerful river in feeding the great geyser broke the surface of the earth in spots and the swirling openings excited the little folk.  They had passed several already on this route and the hobbits had insisted on examining each one.  The openings where the earth surrendered to the water were never very large, no more than a meter across, but the view of the icy water passing swiftly through the peek holes in the earth seemed to fascinate the hobbits.  Merry and Pippin crouched about one such opening now, while downstream some distance away, Sam and Frodo were similarly on their hands and knees, intent faces peering into the water.  The two younger hobbits were dropping leaves and twigs into the water then taking turns racing them to the next window on the water, where Sam and Frodo were watching avidly.

      "I do not think you are being truthful, Frodo," Pippin complained, panting harshly as he flung himself to the grassy earth by his cousin.  "I am certain that I arrived here before that twig."

      Frodo held up a dripping piece of wood.  "You did not.  Here is the proof.  Pay up, Cousin."  Pippin glared at the inoffensive stick, then handed his older cousin a handful of blackberries he had gleaned as they'd walked.  Frodo dipped his hand into the swift water to wash his winnings then deliberately ate the berries in front of his young cousin, grinning all the while.

     Merry was on his knees and elbows hovering over the first opening, trying to peer into the water.  "The stream flows under the ground through a tunnel it has carved in the rock, " he called to the other hobbits.  "Look, it does not fill completely the space it has made but ebbs and flows with the current.  How interesting!"  Pippin wandered back to join him, munching on a few blackberries he had hidden from his cousin.

      His hobbit-inventory complete, Aragorn turned back to the Elf.  Legolas was watching Merry, too, amusement in his starry eyes.  The young one had now pushed up his sleeve and inserted an arm into the water, feeling around the underside of the rocky shelf on which he perched.  He was struggling to extend his reach and was near to dipping his bright head into the water.  "I should help," the Elf murmured.  "It would not do for him to fall in."

     "Merry!" called Aragorn.  Merry and Pippin raised their heads.  "Please do not fall into another river!"  Merry wrinkled his nose at the Ranger and said something to Pippin that made the tweenager giggle.  Aragorn could not make it out over the muted murmur of the river, but no doubt Legolas could.  The Elf laughed abruptly, tried to turn it into a cough, then shot the Ranger an amused look. 

      "I will return in a moment," remarked Legolas hurriedly, before Aragorn could ask him what Merry had said.  Both hobbits looked up as Legolas approached and sank gracefully beside Merry.

      "There's something hanging down from underneath the ground," the hobbit explained earnestly, withdrawing his dripping arm.  He shook it, showering droplets of icy water on all three of them.  "It's long and slick.  I can just touch it with my fingertips.  Probably just a rock, I suppose, but…"

       "But you cannot bear not to know," teased the Elf gently.  "All right.  If you will move aside, I will see if I can reach it."  Merry scooted backwards and Legolas took his place, laying down with his head to the side, and inserted his long arm seeking into the opening.  He wiggled about slightly, bending his arm back beneath himself under the rocky shelf.  Pippin crouched on the far side of the opening across from them and watched with interest.

     "Ah, I feel it," Legolas said.  "How odd.  Let me just … Merry, give me a little more room, please.  Thank you.  Perhaps I can work it loose…" The Elf inched his body closer to the opening, half-suspending his torso over the rushing waters.  Pippin watched as Legolas bent his arm back and underneath him at what must have been a painful angle.  "Luckily, the ground is not so thick here.  Ah – this must be it.  Long and slick, you said?"

      Merry nodded eagerly.  He was standing by the Elf's side, hands on knees as he leaned forward to see the better.  "Can't be just a root," the young hobbit mused.  "There's no trees over the river's path.  The water's too close to the surface to let them grow, I suppose, and it doesn't really feel like a root.  It must be a very strange-shaped rock – or something.  Can you get hold of it, Legolas?"  

     "Almost," Legolas replied.  His hand tightening around the projection, he tried twisting it from side to side.  "Ah," he breathed.  "It's giving.  It is very cold and difficult to keep hold of."  Icy water splashed over his cheek and Legolas grimaced.  "A few more good pulls…"

      From where he crouched across from the prone Elf, Pippin felt a tiny tremor run under his feet.  He tore his eyes from the straining figure and looked down, his mouth dropping open.  Tiny rivulets of earth were disappearing with each effort from Legolas.  The Elf had closed his eyes against the onslaught of icy water and did not see, nor did Merry.  Pippin did, but his cry of warning came too late.

     Without warning, the earth on which the Elf lay crumbled.  The ground sank along the line of the underground stream.  Legolas' eyes snapped open and he gasped, earning him a mouthful of water as the upper part of his body splashed into the rapid current that threatened to pull him into the dark tunnel through which the swift water ran.

      Pippin reacted without thinking.  He launched himself from a crouch and knocked the Elf backwards to safety before his mind reminded the rest of him that there was no earth underneath to stop his own fall.  He tried to latch onto Legolas' cloak and for the briefest of moments he felt the Elf's flailing hands clutch his shoulders.  But Legolas was still falling backwards, off-balance and partially stunned; he could not maintain his hold.  Neither could Pippin.  Dimly he heard Merry 's terrified shriek, then icy water drowned out every other awareness.  

     Pressure and cold.  The water was so cold it burned, and the force of the water battered him.  Time seemed to slow.  Pippin felt water flood his ears as he was sucked under.  A strong swimmer, the tweenager kicked up automatically, hands cupping the swift water and pushing.  He turned in the water, struggling to keep his eyes open, instinctively seeking the light.  His cloak suddenly caught him up short, dragging him backwards, strangling him across the throat.  The hood was caught on something.  One hand tugging at the clasp, he stroked upwards and forward and felt it jerk free.  His eyes wanted to close – cold bit into them with a sharp pain that felt like they were freezing in their sockets.  He forced them to stay open.  Two indistinct forms were outlined against the light.  Then something long cut through the water and Pippin knew it was Legolas' arm.

     The young hobbit kicked towards it.  It was not until then that he realized that the opening was ahead of him instead of above him.  The powerful underground current was pushing him away from the aperture.  

     His view of the opening was being foreshortened.  He kicked frantically towards the seeking arm but could seem to make no headway.  His legs tangled in his cloak and he almost choked himself.  He was horrified to see Legolas' arm thrash about a final time and disappear then everything went black and he was under the ground, a solid roof of stone and earth above him.

     Even so, Pippin did not lose his head.  He needed to breathe, and soon.   Striking the icy water had prompted his body to inhale deeply before the water pulled him under, and he had automatically trailed tiny lines of bubbles as his body expelled spent oxygen.  He kicked again and tried to level out his body, rising in the water like a fish.  When he felt earth bump against his back, he rotated in the water, face-up, and readied himself.

      The second opening, where he had lost the race to the twig, was upon him before he was prepared for it.  Utter blackness was replaced by dazzling light.  His hands shot out with desperate strength and just caught the lip of the rocky shelf where Frodo had knelt to hold up the twig. The merciless current strove to drag him under and he held on with all of his might.  Loose earth tore his fingers and far away, his freezing fingers knew distant pain as fingernails were torn away and bloodied.  The swift current pushed him up again, this time helping him level himself out with his face to the surface.  With a desperate pull of his arms, he brought his face above the surface and took a breath of blessed air.

      His heart was pounding so hard that it did not seem there was room in his body for his oxygen-starved lungs to expand.  Hot tears flooded his eyes, excruciatingly painful against his icy face.  In that instant, terror finally overwhelmed him, and his carefully-marshaled bravery dissolved.  His fingers were weakening upon the rocky shelf and he strove to fight back panic.  His heart rose in his throat, and suddenly he could not think past dying in this cold and lightless place.  

     Pippin blinked his eyes to clear them but could see nothing but glittering blurs.  He tried to scream but could only choke, spewing out water.   Were Frodo and Sam still by the second opening?  No, if they were they would have seized him by now.  Had everyone run over to the first hole, where he had fallen in?  Was there no one to help him?

      The tweenager clenched every muscle in his small body and locked his arms, surging upwards, breaching the water like a trout leaping for a fly.  Water cascaded down him.  For a moment he teetered on the edge of the lip of earth, then his strength failed and he began to sink down.   His sodden clothes seemed to weigh tons, and there was a straggling weight dragging at his throat.  He had time for only one weak, gasping cry before he was sucked back under.

      But the intake of air galvanized him for another effort and he firmly pushed the fear to the back of his mind.  He found himself scrabbling back towards light and life, hands and feet dog-paddling as he struggled upwards, fighting to stay to the slower moving edge of the swift current as Merry had taught him, so long ago when they had played and swam in the Brandywine. This might be his only chance.  His heart sank within him as the light was masked.  But no – he hadn't yet been dragged under the rocky shelf.  Wavering, half-seen forms obscured the light – blurry forms that resolved themselves into his kin and friends.  With a dull slapping sound, Pippin felt himself forced back marginally as a large object impacted the water.  There was just enough filtered light to see Legolas as the Elf twisted in the water, probably held by Strider and the others. 

     Legolas' eyes forced themselves open and his far-seeing gaze pierced the murk.  Pippin was out of the direct light but the Elf's eyes found him anyway.  Pippin saw them widen as he was spotted, then Legolas' long arms were reaching for him.  Pippin paddled forward with all of his remaining strength, pulling with one torn hand along the wall of the tunnel, stroking with the other, kicking determinedly with all of the Tookish stubbornness he had in him.  Then he felt his fingers brush those of the Elf's. The current pulled at him pitilessly as he struggled nearer just a bit more, just a bit, and Legolas would have him, he would be saved…

      But it was too far. Too far.  Legolas tried to thrust himself forward, and Pippin saw his friend's face twist in pain as the grip at his knees must have been tightened.  Yet still he stretched himself and Pippin felt hope kindle in him as slender hands clasped his fingers.  A great bubble of air escaped him in a sob.  The tweenager scrabbled desperately at the hands but neither of them could gain a purchase.  His last sight as the icy waters bore him away into cold darkness was of the Elf's anguished face as Legolas was dragged back up into the light. 

* TBC * 


	25. Aftermath

(Author's Note:  Shirebound, I couldn't do this to Pip.  Marigold made me.  Really!  Arabella thorne, thank you!  I'm so glad you are enjoying it!  Sunhawk, it's a good thing you are looking forward to the angst, because there's going to be a lot of it…  Endymion2, you _must_ have had a bad day at home.  I hope things are going better for you today.  Bookworm2000, I hope this chapter was worth the wait!  Baylor, I love shifting to Pippin's viewpoint - his 'elderly' kin!  And I told the Puppetmaster she has a new title.  Lady Eleclya, I think it's because Pip awakens our protective instinct.  Hi Layla!  That light of Frodo's is such a marvelous touch of Tolkien's.  It's such a hallmark of his glowing spirit.  Aratlithiel1, most of that teasing on the Q&I board was Marigold.  I am innocent (cough!).  Robin Gurl, one of your scenarios could be the poor lad fleeing from us writers!  (BTW, did you read Lindelea's "Angst"?  It's a scream!)  Gentle Hobbit, how awful to be claustrophobic!  Now you have me wondering if hobbits get claustrophobia.  Firnsarnien, the only way I could do that to Pip was to have the icy water numbing his hands.  Helen, you knew correctly, I'm afraid.  Kit5, I've never fallen into icy water but I have been part of a 'rescue chain' as described in my "Descending Caradhras."  That's how I know how Aragorn feels as his shoulders are being pulled out of their sockets.  Sam, are you happy now???  **;)**  To answer your question, I know what Merry said to Pippin but I think I will keep it for a short story.  Enjoy the Pippin-angst – I am blaming it all on you and Marigold.   Mpfan, thank, you.  If you felt that you were struggling along with Pippin, you have my sympathy!  Liptonrm and smalldiver, yup – if there is an episode of sweetness and peacefulness, it probably means I'm setting you up for something horrible.  "Step 1:  Relax the victim…"  Coriandra, the answer to your question is in the next chapter.  My thanks to Marigold for the intensive beta-ing required by this chapter, and for the generous sharing of her experience as I learn the art of 'angst-writing.')         

Chapter 25:  Aftermath

       Pippin's strangled cry of warning whipped Merry's head up and his eyes focused on the burgundy-cloaked blur of motion that was his little cousin hurling himself at Legolas, who for the briefest second was suddenly falling forward into the swift stream.  The young hobbit bounded upright just in time to see Pippin's dirty feet disappearing into the icy water instead of the Elf.  Legolas was now falling backwards, away from the rushing water, his long arms scrabbling in the air trying vainly to catch his little cousin's flailing feet.  Off-balance and stunned by the impact of Pippin's leap shoving him bodily to safety, the Elf crashed into Merry just as the hobbit leaped forward, carrying them down hard to the rocky earth, knocking the breath from them both.

       _"Pippin!"  _Merry's own shriek brought the other three at a run, Aragorn easily outdistancing Frodo and Sam.  The Ranger's gaze darted about frantically, seeking the tweenager.  Gasping for air, Merry rolled out from underneath the Elf and hurled himself at the opening.  He grasped the rocky shelf of earth and would have thrown himself in, but unyielding arms restrained him.  He tried to tear himself free, throwing himself from side to side.  "Let me go!  Pippin!  _Pippin!"_

A smaller set of hands locked around his ankles and a heartbeat later, another weight slammed down on the back of his legs.  Frantic, Merry kicked like a stranded fish, and dimly he felt the backs of his heels impact on someone's chin and heard a grunt.  He felt vaguely sorry, but it didn't matter.  Only Pippin mattered and Pippin was drowning.  Words were being shouted at him – Frodo's voice, shrill with terror, Aragorn roaring, but he had no time to listen and paid them no heed.  With desperate strength, he jackknifed his body and pushed backward, foiling the restraining arms.  Free at last, he flung himself down at the water's edge and sucked in a great breath of air before throwing himself in.  

      A hand clamped on his shoulder with bruising force, preventing him, then slid off to support Legolas as he knelt beside him, still gasping, elven-eyes focusing on the water.  "Hold!" ordered the Elf.  "Will you go foolishly after him into the dark?  Let me look."   Merry stilled, fighting to understand the Elf's words, his mind struggling to overrule blind panic.  

      The sun shone over their shoulders, reflecting into the water and turning the waters black, like ink poured into a bowl.  Legolas could not see Pippin.  Nothing could be seen in that murk save the white foam of the current that danced in the middle of the swift-moving stream.  

      Merry had come to that same conclusion.  Coherent thought was returning; somehow around the screams of unbearable terror drilling through the fire-shot darkness in his mind, he was already evaluating how best to go after Pippin.  He would swim faster unburdened.  Struggling up to his knees, he tore off his cloak and jacket then ripped the buttons off his waistcoat as he shrugged it off.  Before he could kick himself off the ledge, a huge hand caught him at the scruff of the neck and hoisted him unceremoniously into the air.

      "Merry, no!"  Aragorn's voice was hoarse, straining.  "You would have no more chance than Pippin.  Let Legolas try!"  Merry fought him, rabbit-kicking, twisting in his grasp like an eel, then suddenly went limp.  Aragorn dropped him, fearful that he had been too rough.  But no, even in his terror Merry had realized the wisdom of Aragorn's words, unwillingly admitting that the Elf had more chance of success than he.  He was quite unaware of Frodo and Sam, each now clutching one of his arms, both supporting and restraining him.  Legolas was stretched out at the opening, his cheek pressed to rocky ground, fishing about in the icy water with his long arm.  Merry crouched down by Legolas' head, unaware of the whimpering cries dying in his throat or the tears streaming down his cheeks, and watched as the Elf's shoulder thrashed back and forth, frantically searching for Pippin. 

     Then the Elf was shaking his head.  "I do not feel him!  He should be rising to the surface, even with the current."

      "The current!"  Frodo's voice was still shrill, the words breathy as if he could not get enough air.  "He's too small to fight it!  It would push –"

      Legolas was already moving.  The Elf was speeding to the second opening when a choked gasp burst from the gap that lay ahead of him, and something dark and featureless exploded from the water.  Pippin's soaked head rose above the surface, the water streaming from it in such cascades that he was difficult to recognize.  His sodden clothing was heavy and clung to him, turning him into a featureless dark mass.  Desperately his small hands scrabbled at the ground but found no purchase.  Legolas saw torn and bleeding hands dig into the ground seeking an anchor – a rock, a root – anything to hold him – but they found nothing.  With a sobbing cough, the little one was pulled back under the water. 

      The Elf leapt the last few meters, flying above the ground as if he had grown wings, his arms extending to grasp Pippin before he could be pulled away.  His impact on the hard earth sent a tremor through it that those equally desperate but less quick could feel.  Aragorn was mere steps behind.  He also threw himself full-length onto his stomach, his arms locking around the Elf's knees, his hands catching his own upper arms with bruising force, holding on to the other with a death grip.  Aragorn and Legolas did not discuss their course of action; they had traveled together many times and no words were needed between them.  The Ranger dug the toes of his boots into the rocky soil and a moment later, felt three small sets of hands latch onto his leather coat and add their weight to his.

      Legolas did not look behind him.  Trusting to those who anchored him, the Elf raised himself up on his hands and threw himself forward.  His entire body to the waist went into the freezing river.  The shock of the icy water drove a gasp from him, then he closed his mouth and concentrated on not wasting what remained of his air.  The Elf's calves and feet clamped against his chest, Aragorn closed his eyes against the sudden intolerable strain as the swift current caught Legolas.  If the current were so fierce as to almost tear Legolas from his grasp, little Pippin would have almost no chance.  Aragorn refused to think of that and concentrated instead on the desperate task of keeping hold of Legolas.  He thought his shoulders would be jerked from their sockets.  But Aragorn held, and the small hands holding them both safe held also.  

     Legolas inched forward like a caterpillar and the others scooted forward as well to accommodate his unspoken demand.  They could see nothing past where the water swallowed the Elf at his waist; the water was utterly dark and the Elf's frantic movements were obscuring their view.  Then they felt a violent tremor quake through the lashing body beneath them and the Elf surged forward again.  Ignoring the screaming agony of his shoulders, Aragorn loosened his grip around the Elf's knees and controlled the slender legs as they slid through his grasp.  His hands caught on Legolas' ankles with a jerk that dragged them all forward nearly half a meter before the hobbits could dig in their toes and find purchase on the rocky ground.

      Were he not an Elf, Legolas would never have been able to see the flicker of shadow and movement under the rocky shelf that was the young hobbit's  struggling form.  Unmindful of his own safety, Legolas twisted sideways in the water and thrust one arm forward, the hold on his legs a distant and unimportant thing.  He could see Pippin distinctly now, his clear eyes piercing the lightless water like sunbeams through a cloud.  He could see the little one's white face, cheeks puffed with the gasp of air he had managed, little bubbles trailing from his tight-clenched mouth.  The little one was kicking, those overlarge feet serving well as paddles. He was fighting hard against the relentless current.  The youngster's green-gold eyes looked black in the shadowed darkness, staring and terrified. Those eyes widened as he caught sight of the Elf, and Legolas could see the little one's desperate plea for help in them.  Pippin reached out a straining arm and Legolas did the same, stretching every muscle of his long body to make contact

      Aragorn responded to the shift of muscles, rolling up into a sitting position with his hands tight on Legolas' ankles, digging in the heels of his boots.  How long had Legolas been under?  Pippin had been under even longer, and his lungs were so much smaller than the Elf's…  Sam and Frodo darted around him and placed themselves against his shoulders, their chests against his, short legs braced against the dragging force of the water.  Merry hesitated for a moment, uncertain what hold would do the most good, then fastened his hands on Aragorn's leather collar, much as the Man had restrained him from following Pippin.  Merry dug his feet into the loose soil, seeking rock to brace them both.  Distractedly, Aragorn registered the blood dripping down Sam's chin, bright rivulets of red smearing his jacket and shirt.  Sam's eyes were clenched shut as he pushed and Aragorn wondered if the hobbit even was aware that his teeth must have bitten through his lower lip when Merry had kicked him in his frantic struggles.  Then there was no more time for observation as a shudder and twist of the Elf's body demanded even more leeway.

      Legolas paid no heed to the iron grip upon him; his attention was focused on the small form that battled to reach him.   Another effort to gain a few more inches made Legolas' face twist in pain but he was not aware of it.  And that effort had results - Legolas felt small fingers brush against his hand.  Impossibly, the Elf reached further and felt his fingers lock around a small hand.  _Just a little farther, little one, the Elf prayed.  _Please, dear heart, just a little more…_  But the hand was sliding – he could not hold it.  The current was too strong.  __Oh, _Elbereth,_ _please!_  He clamped his fingers down on the little hand but it was gone.  Gone.  He slumped in defeat, out of air and out of hope.  Then the current was pressing even more forcefully upon him, and he realized he was being drawn backwards.  Legolas tried to resist the force pulling him up but he could not refuse it.  His last sight before being hauled up on the rocky shelf was of his little rescuer's terrified face as it grew smaller and smaller and was lost to sight in the icy murk.  Then Legolas' own world grew smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared entirely. _

* * * * *

      "Legolas!"  Someone slapped his face and from a far away place, the Elf tried to protest such treatment.  He slurred something, the meaning of which even he did not recognize, and managed to drag his eyes half-open.  His limbs seemed to weigh as much as the very mountains and would not respond to his wishes.  He shook his head weakly to indicate his return to awareness.  When the hand holding him upright released him, he promptly fell over onto his side.

      Hands propped him up again.  More of them this time.  "Legolas!  Wake up!"

      Legolas would have liked to inform this discourteous person that he was awake, thank you, but his tongue would not cooperate.  To his mortification, what emerged from his mouth sounded more like, "Imwak, 'Gorn, stopslpmui" instead of "I am awake, Aragorn, stop slapping me."  Thankfully that evidently satisfied the Man, for Aragorn sat back on his heels and waited for the Elf to focus.  

     Shivering, Legolas realized how very cold he was.  That realization brought to his attention that he had been stripped of his clothing and was sitting wrapped in every blanket their small company possessed.  A fire crackled merrily in front of him and he leaned closer to its heat.  He was being supported by something warm pressed against his sides and looked down and around to see a dark head and a bright gold one against him.  Slowly it came to his blurred mind that the halflings were crouched against him to keep him upright.  How very undignified.

     Samwise crossed into his vision, dumping another armload of wood near the fire, the hobbit's grey eyes looking at him worriedly.   There was blood on Sam's face and splattered on his shirt.  Legolas stared blankly, unable to comprehendthe blood, or the unnatural silence.  He should at least be able to hear Pippin chattering. The youngest hobbit was rarely silent.  A silent Pippin was no doubt a Pippin getting into trouble.  Someone should be looking after him.  Someone should…  Someone…

     The Elf's ragged cry brought Aragorn's hands to his face again, but this time in comfort.  "I could not hold him," Legolas said wildly, his own long hands batting at the Man's.  "I had him – our fingers touched – but I could not hold – the current -"  

     "Shush," the Ranger said softly in tones one would use to reassure a child.  "You did your best.  No one blames you.  You did all you could."  More words poured from Aragorn's lips, but Legolas could not grasp them.  He stared blankly at his friend's moving mouth, then looked down at the two curly heads at his sides.  They had not moved away when he regained consciousness, but neither did they lift their faces to look at him.  Both small bodies were trembling, and he knew it was not because they were cold.  Abruptly, Legolas wished for the first time in his long life that Elves were not immortal.  Pippin had drowned saving him, and through all the ages to come never would he forget the littlest hobbit's sacrifice.

      The calling of his name brought his attention back to his friend.  Aragorn was looking at him anxiously.  "Legolas, are you listening?  I said, we must not give up hope."  What was the Man talking about?  His words made no sense.  Aragorn had not seen the look in Pippin's eyes as the young one was swept away from rescue.  He had not been the one to fail the youngling.  He heard a sob and realized it was his own.

      _"Legolas!"  The Elf jerked under the whip in the Ranger's voice.  Startled, his eyes came up to meet the Man's.   "We will stay here a little longer until you are warmed.  Then we will go to where the stream surfaces and empties itself…"  Aragorn hesitated, his eyes traveling to the silent hobbits.   "Empties itself," he continued more slowly, "into one of the great waterfalls that flows from the mountains into Imladris."_

      On his left Legolas felt Merry stiffen.  He felt a shudder at his other side and the Ringbearer raised his dark head.  The hobbit's blue irises had been almost completely eclipsed by the black pupils, making Frodo's eyes appear staring and blind.  "Do you mean to say that … Pippin…"  Frodo paused, then swallowed.  "That Pippin's … that his … body might … be swept into Rivendell?  Before we get back? "  

     Aragorn dropped from a crouch onto one knee before the lost one's eldest cousin.  "Frodo," he said carefully, "I will not mourn Pippin until I hold his body in my arms.  Until then, I will believe that he is alive.  Perhaps we will find him along the banks of the stream after it has surfaced."   Frodo looked up at him, and slowly, a single tear welled in those agonized eyes and ran down his pallid cheek.  Aragorn watched it fall.  The Man's hands cupped the hobbit's face, more gently than he had the Elf's.  "Do not despair yet, Frodo.  I have seen many wonders and marvels in all the years I have wandered the Wild, but never have I seen a wonder equaling a hobbit's ability to bounce back from unhappy chance."

      "Unhappy chance?"  Merry spat the words out.  Aragorn was startled by the acrimony in the hobbit's gaze.  Merry's blue eyes blazed, his face twisted in anger and grief and something else.  "You call drowning in some unknown river, far from his home _unhappy chance_?"  Abruptly the hobbit stood, causing Legolas to list sideways at the sudden removal of support.  

      "Merry," Aragorn said, unsure of the reason for the young hobbit's rage.  

     _"Unhappy chance?"  _Merry was fair shouting, evidently unaware of the tears that had begun to spill from his eyes.  "It anyone had to go into that river, it should have been me!  I was the one who wanted to know what some stupid thing was under the rock shelf.  Legolas wouldn't near have fallen in if I hadn't begged him to get it for me, and Pippin would never have had to do what he did to save him.  We are lucky that they did not both drown because of my foolishness!  It's my fault, for always having to know everything.  I should have been keeping an eye on Pippin, not worrying about some useless rock!  I should have kept him farther away.  I failed him.  I…" 

     Frodo squeezed Legolas' arm gently to make sure the Elf was steady, then rose and wrapped his arms around his younger cousin.  Merry fell silent and turning suddenly, buried his head into Frodo's shoulder.  "Come on, lad," the elder whispered to the younger, "let's go talk for a bit, you and I."  Aragorn watched sadly as Frodo led his cousin some distance away, and saw them sink to the ground behind what privacy a few small boulders could afford.  Merry lay his head in Frodo's lap, his shoulders shaking violently as Frodo stroked his hair.  Frodo leaned over him, whispering to him softly as tears shimmered again in his own eyes and fell glistening into Merry's curls.  Sam watched them, grief marring his gentle features, and fear for what Merry's wrongful blame of himself might result in.  He closed his eyes against the prickling of yet more tears and vowed to keep a close eye on the young hobbit.

      Legolas was dressed and standing, if weaving slightly, when the hobbits returned.  The Elf appeared still somewhat in shock, his usually clear gaze unfocused and muddy.  He kept staring at his hands and there were telltale tear-tracks on his pale face.  Frodo guided Merry over to his pack and helped him shoulder it, exchanging a worried, weary look with Sam that rent Aragorn's heart.     Merry did not look up; his eyes remaining fixed on the ground.  Sam had packed up the blankets and put out the fire and readied the packs, including Aragorn's and Legolas', all in a flurry of activity that Aragorn knew was meant to stave off too much thought. The little gardener had placed Pippin's pack next to his own, but when Aragorn reached for it, Merry knocked his hand away and snatched up the pack, hugging it to himself as if it were the most precious thing in the world.  

     The Ranger had spent the last few minutes immersed in thought, interspersed with curses at himself for using the fireworks Gandalf had given him.  Had he foolishly wasted them on amusing young hobbits instead of saving them to signal for help in an emergency?  But then he remembered how Pippin's eyes had reflected the falling stars of fire, and how the young one had laughed, throwing himself back against the earth and crowing in sheer delight.  Never had he seen the small hobbit happier and more filled with joy.  No.  No help could possibly have arrived in time to prevent this disaster, or to save Pippin when they themselves could not.  His last thought, before the grieving party moved out, was that he was glad he had set off the fireworks after all.

* TBC * 


	26. Two Discoveries

(Author's Note:  Bookworm2000, angst everywhere … are we sick for enjoying this so much [both writing and reading it]?  Robin Gurl, _this_ from the one who wanted "Pippin-torture?"  LOL!  Shirebound, it is indeed a good thing we can blame this on Marigold.  I do at every opportunity.  Smalldiver, it is amazing how you manage to convey so much in so few words!   QTPie-2488, it _is_ different, isn't it?  I am learning so much through this explorative effort.  Lindelea, I'm scared to spin this out longer so no breathtaking waterfall rescue … this time.  Ariel3, high praise indeed!  Baylor, the Evil Puppetmaster wanted to not let anyone find out what had happened until Chapter 27!  But **_I_** have some mercy (and cowardice) in my soul.  Elwen, if it were possible to die from angst overload, a couple of your stories would have finished me off long ago.  [That's a compliment.]  Lady Eleclya, I told the Evil Puppetmaster [AKA Marigold] that Merry and Legolas are guilt-ridden, everyone else is miserable – it was thoroughly lovely.  Counseling time…  LilyBaggins, it is a relief to know that the visual pictures that I see are translating through to you.  Those little moments so add to a scene.  Sunhawk, I'm glad you are pleased with the direction the story has taken, though I feel I'm going to have a lot to make up for.  Firnsarnien, I'd say you are probably right.  But the "and well" part …. umm….  Eilju, it's OK to skip painful parts.  I do that, too.  Sam, I think that short story will appear after Aragorn has had some time to recover from the walking party.  Shireling, your comment that you were going to go lay down in a darkened room just slayed me.  Frodomeg, never, I promise.  But anything short of that...  Coriandra, I don't know if the Fellowship angst is "at its best," but the amount I have learned from the Evil Puppetmaster is amazing.  Wanequelle, I had to be forced, but it was for my own good.  Arabella thorne, thank you – I hope this chapter also merits a "broken record."   Azaelia, I shouldn't have admitted that - but you had already figured it out.  Gentle Hobbit, *snicker*, no, but I'm learning!  Laura, they made me.  Really.  Kimby, you mustn't imagine a loved one in such a situation!  It isn't good for you!  Elbereth, even the darkest chapter must have a little humor, or it is unbearable.  My thanks again to Marigold [who might soon start objecting to her new title] for her guidance and generous sharing of her experience in creating and writing angst.)          

Chapter 26:  Two Discoveries

       The survivors of the walking party traveled slowly, their feet unwilling to carry them forward to the confirmation of their worst fear.  Merry walked with his head down, so grief stricken and seemingly unaware of his surroundings that had he not been protectively placed between Frodo and Sam, he could have easily wandered off.  He clutched Pippin's pack to him as though it were his only anchor on reality. The small party relied on Legolas' ears and Aragorn's eyes to guide them, following the route of the underground tributary as it flowed downstream.  The swift waters stayed very close to the surface and in a few places broke ground.  These openings the Ranger and Elf examined intently, but they always shook their heads and motioned the subdued hobbits onward.

       Their pace quickened and Merry's head came up when the increased volume of the waters announced its exit onto open ground, spilling forth from the rocky tunnel with a great rushing roar, widening broadly.  Before Aragorn could call them back, the hobbits ran down to the foaming waters, beginning to search frantically among the rocks and eddies.  Even Sam, who feared rivers with all of his heart.

      "Be careful!" Aragorn cautioned them, "The rocks are slippery!" The hobbits paid him little heed. They scrambled among the great boulders lining the bank, over and under the waterlogged and rotting fallen trees, looking into every little space that might shield a small, injured form.  Watching his cousin covertly, Frodo quailed at the desperation in Merry's eyes.  By worrying about Merry, Frodo could manage, for a time, to divert his grief for Pippin.  Frodo told himself firmly, that like Aragorn, he would not mourn Pippin until he held the lad's body in his arms.  He refused to think his little cousin dead – he could not.  A world without that sharp face and perpetual motion and overflowing joy was inconceivable.  Inconceivable.  So Frodo turned his thoughts to Merry and refused to consider the alternative.  Since his cousin had wept in his lap, Merry had not spoken.  None of the party had been very talkative, but Merry's absolute silence was frightening.

       Sam paused, panting, gripping tight to a rocky outcropping to steady himself.  He had just climbed down into a little hollow between two fallen logs, despite thinking the space was too small to hide a cat.  But he could not leave it unsearched.  Pippin was small for his age; no telling where the youngster could end up.  Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he raised his head to locate the others.  _Odd that no one's calling for the lad, Sam thought. Then he realized with a sudden shock, _No, it isn't._  __They all think he's dead.  Sod that!  Sam inhaled deeply and bellowed, "Master Pippin!   Pippin!"_

      Frodo and Merry jerked visibly to hear Sam's shout.  Legolas and Aragorn looked at him as if he had gone mad, but Sam determinedly ignored them.  After a few moments, Frodo's voice joined his.  "Pippin!  Pip-lad!  Answer me!"  Merry  remained silent, too afraid of shouting and receiving only stillness as a reply.

       Aragorn and Legolas called and searched also, able to climb upon higher rocks and look between boulders where the hobbits could not reach.  It was Legolas who made the grim discovery.  They heard him utter a strangled cry and all looked over to see him stoop down for something hidden by the rocks.  "Aragorn!" he called.  _"Aragorn!"_

      Almost before he could straighten with his find the walking party had converged upon him.  In Legolas' hands dripped Pippin's burgundy cloak, sadly torn and slashed by the river.  He handed it to Aragorn wordlessly.  One end dragged oddly, and with a frown, Aragorn shook out the sodden cloth and pulled open the hood.  

       Something glistening fell from the hood into the sand, something long and spike-shaped.  It was fully as long as a Man's arm, wrist to elbow, and milky white yet occluded with all the colors of the rainbow.  The rounded base was broader and rougher than the tip, and the tip itself narrowed to a sharp point, sharp enough to draw blood.  Aragorn was glad he had not closed his hand upon it.

       When no one else made a move to pick it up, Sam finally did.  The stocky hobbit turned it over in his hands, tracing the play of iridescence across it with a calloused thumb.  "What's this, then?" he asked.

      "Legolas…" murmured Aragorn, reaching hesitantly for the object.  Sam surrendered it to him, a puzzled frown on his face.  "Is this what you were trying to work free for Merry?"

       The Elf gave a single nod, but, strangely, did not seek to touch the spike.  He was staring at it, transfixed.  "Only once before have I seen one.  It was smaller than this…  Never before have I touched one.  When I was very young, one was presented to my royal father as a gift from a sycophant who desired a great boon from him.  I have never forgotten the excitement of that day.  It was taken immediately and locked in the treasure-vault.  Such things are no longer found discarded in Middle-earth; any that were ever found were taken and hoarded long ago." 

      "It is what I think it is, then?" asked Aragorn softly.  "I have but seen illustrations in Elrond's books."  He laid it reverently in the Elf's hands, and Legolas slowly slid his fingers over it, brushing the clinging mud from the spike.  The hobbits crowded closer, even Merry, their grief momentarily lessened by their curiosity.

       "It is told that the greater ones shed them and grew new ones to replace those lost.  The discarded ones still carried some of their owner's power, and could be used for many things by lesser beings."  Legolas turned the spike over in his hands, marveling.  "There is no way to tell which shed this, or how it became lodged in the earth above the river.  Possibly it was just let fall, unneeded and unwanted, and the drifting earth covered it as the long ages passed."

       To Merry's surprise, the Elf turned to him and laid it carefully in his hands.  Merry looked at it blankly.  Seeing that the hobbit did not understand, Legolas crouched gracefully before him until they were eye-to-eye.  "Merry," Legolas said, "it is a dragon's tooth." 

       The hobbit stared down at the priceless, beautiful thing out of legend, coveted by powerful kings and great lords.  He held it carefully but without the reverence shown by the two Big People.  Then he raised his head and the look on his face said more clearly than any words that Pippin's life was worth more than all of the teeth of all of the dragons that ever were.  Still without speaking, he unslung his little cousin's pack from his shoulder and laid the tooth amongst the carelessly wadded and battered clothing.  Turning away from the others, Merry continued searching.  

* * * * *                   

      Even as the icy waters bore him away from Legolas' outstretched arm, Pippin continued to fight.  The very strength of the current helped him in keeping his face turned up in the underground river's rocky tunnel, though a heaviness strove to pull his head down and back into the water.  Again and again the relentless water pushed him under, but more often the pressure of the water against his small body kept him from sinking.  His hands scrabbled at the rocky tunnel above him, to keep his face from scraping against it, and trying to catch a rock or root or something to hold on to, to at least allow him to breathe at intervals and gather his wits.  He no longer felt the pain of his torn and bloodied hands; he no longer felt his hands at all.

      He found that if he stretched out his arms straight ahead and slightly above his head, he would have a moment's notice of the approach of an air pocket, giving him time to thrust his face up and snatch a breath or two hanging on for the briefest instant.  Twice his arms encountered large gaps in the rocky earth but before his mind could register them, he was past the openings in the earth that would have allowed him escape from the river.

      If this continued much longer, he would not drown.  No, he would freeze to death instead.  Not only was it harder to hold his arms ahead of his head, but he cared less about doing so.  Pippin's mind was shutting down, lulled by the darkness and cold and the press of the water upon him.  He no longer felt terror, felt pain.  He did not feel much of anything, other than regret for the grief his death would cause Merry and Frodo and his family.  Soon he did not feel even that.

     So it was that he did not immediately notice when the pressure upon him changed, lessened.  He had become no more than the discarded twig that he had raced, laughing, only to lose his bet and forfeit his blackberries to Frodo.  Like that twig, he swirled around in the water, head tilted back and rump raised to level his body, no longer remembering of the reason for it.

      Gradually he became aware that he was not being pushed along at such great speed.  Then he noticed that the unyielding blackness was no longer absolute.  Rather, he could see grayish shapes above him; indistinct forms that resolved into roots and the bottom of the earth.  The underground river was rushing out toward the open air.  Swiftly he shot out into bright sunlight and the sudden light hurt and dazzled his eyes. But he was free of the tunnel!  Some small flicker of defiance awoke in his breast and railed against his fate.  For the first time in several minutes, Pippin was not content to be carried along.  He inhaled deeply and choked, the convulsion causing him to lose his balance in the water.  Half-turning on his side, he sank and water closing over his head awoke instinct.  Pippin thrashed leaden limbs, then forced them into an awkward dog-paddle. 

     It was almost more than he could manage to raise his dripping head above the water.  He could see no escape when he did; the rocky tunnel had given way to large smooth rocks and boulders on both sides of the water.  Water glistened on them, making the colors richer and more vibrant.  He could not hope to climb the slippery rocks.  That realization momentarily made his body forget its task and he went down again, thrashing uselessly until he could find his rhythm again.

     His clothes were dragging at him and the weight of his cloak against his throat was torture.  He tugged at the clasp but his fingers tangled in his scarf and he could not tell by feel which was cloak and which was scarf.  His fingers would not work properly.  Desperate, he hooked his hand underneath the clasp and jerked hard, choking himself.  But the weight came free.  He gave no more thought to the cloak as he needed that hand for paddling.  Continuing to be pushed downstream Pippin stroked for the side of the tributary, where he knew the waters would be more sluggish.  Even if he could not climb out, perhaps he could cling to a rock to keep from drowning.

      The current did not want to give him up.  Pippin felt as if he was pushing against an invisible wall, and it took many minutes and nearly the last of his strength to thrust himself from the center of the river to the sides.  Water moved more slowly at the sides of a river; Merry had taught him that.  

     He saw the low boulder coming at him but had no strength or time to avoid it.  He tried to back-paddle but only succeeded in turning himself vertically in the foaming water.  Pippin crashed into the boulder with his right shoulder leading.  His head snapped sideways on his neck then slammed forward against the rock, and the world went gray and dim.  With the last of his strength, he clung to the half submerged rock and managed to struggle out of the foaming water to lay on the rock like a piece of jetsam discarded by the river

* * * * *

     "What is it?"

     "I do not know.  It looks somewhat like one of Lord Elrond's halfling guests." 

     "It is very muddy."  This observation was accompanied by the feeling of large, warm hands easing his arms out of his sodden jacket and gently untying the scarf from around his neck.

     "And almost frozen, and wet and hurt.  Will you hurry up with that fire?"  _Fire.  Pippin's mind fastened onto that word and hung on like grim death._

     "Perhaps it is a kelpie."  His shirt and breeches followed his jacket, then his underthings.  Pippin would have protested, but he felt so lethargic.  It was difficult to pay attention to what these Big People were saying.

     "In Imladris?  These are Lord Elrond's lands.  The Fairy-Folk do not walk here uninvited."

     "I think it is a kelpie.  It carries a fairy-stone in its pocket ... though why one of the Fairy Folk would wish to guard against their own illusions I do not know."  A blanket was wrapped around him, and Pippin sighed in relief at its soft warmth.  Then the hands moved up to his hair and face, something spongy cleaning away the mud.  "Why would one of the Fey water-folk choose to travel a river in such an unsuitable form?" 

      "A kelpie would not do so.  I do not think it is one of the Fairy-Folk.  It is too large for any of the Fey that I know of.  And not very fair."

     Pippin took exception to that.  No one would be very fair after tromping through the Wild for several days, forced to forage for bits of questionable food under threat of starvation, being attacked by Men, then terrorized by a wild pig, _then_ falling into an underground river and being carried who knows how far from one's companions.  It was most unjust.

     "Uupp-ahobick," he protested.

     Silence above him.  Then, "What did it say?"

     "I believe it said, 'uup-a-kick'."

      More silence.  "Is that a threat of some kind?  It does have large feet."

      "I'm a hobbit," Pippin repeated.  From the continued silence, he could tell they doubted that.

      Then one said, "Like Master Bilbo?   Lord Elrond's friend?"  Pippin nodded wearily.  There was another swift exchange above him, then he felt the soft cloth continue its washing, stroking over the rest of him and wiping off the mud.  "Are you one of the halflings that arrived with the Ringbearer?"

      "Yes," whispered Pippin.  "He's my cousin.  Bilbo, too.  And Merry…  Sam isn't but he almost is.  A cousin, I mean…  I have rather too many cousins, I think sometimes, but -"

     "Hush," said the other softly and Pippin fell silent, too tired to clarify his confused and confusing answer.  He really should open his eyes.  Rather rude of him not to.  With a great effort, he dragged them open.  The setting sun slanting over the two figures' shoulders dazzled him, and he could see nothing but vague dark forms outlined by brilliant shimmers of light.  It must be almost evening … how long had he been unconscious? 

       One of the forms sat back on its haunches and regarded him doubtfully.  "Greetings, little one," it said at last, and Pippin felt a cool hand stroke along his brow.  It explored the side of his head and the tweenager gasped, pain flashing through him like fire.  "Oh, I am sorry!" murmured the voice, then the gentle hand was stoking his hair, easing away the pain. 

      Pippin knew of only one person whose gentle hands could stroke away hurt aside from his Merry.  "You're an Elf," he managed to whisper.  "Why does my head hurt so?"

      He thought one of the figures looked up at the other but it was difficult to tell in the misty darkness.  "Because you have a nasty gash in it, little one.  You barely missed losing an ear. You were very lucky.  If my friend and I had not found you, you might have bled to death or died of exposure upon that rock."  A shadowy hand motioned to the side, and Pippin became aware of the muted roar of the river.  It had been there since he awoke, he realized, but it was so familiar that it seemed almost a part of him.  He had certainly swallowed enough of it. 

      He should stand and bow, Pippin thought, and introduce himself properly.  Frodo would be horrified at his lack of manners.  Merry would box his ears.  Both of them, Pippin thought, and giggled.

      "I think it is going back to sleep.  Can you stay awake, little one?  We must know where you belong if we to help you." 

      "Legolas calls me that," murmured Pippin.  He could feel the fire now; it must be a miniature bonfire from the amount of heat it was putting out.  It felt good.  His entire body ached, and his head felt as if the skin were too small.  He was so very sleepy…

      There was a quick exchange in Elvish above him that he could not hope to follow, even had he understood more than a few words of the language.  "Legolas Greenleaf?" asked one of the voices.  "The Prince of Mirkwood?"

     "That's him," Pippin replied with a dragging effort.  "He's an Elf, too, you know.  He and Strider are friends. They took us to see the geyser.  Strider's my friend, too, they both are, and Merry's and Frodo and Sam.  Legolas…" Pippin paused, aware that he was rambling, and not making much sense while he was doing it. 

      Gentle hands cupped his face and turned his head sideways to examine his head.  Pippin whimpered incoherently, and the hands paused to caress his face, cool and soothing.  "Go to sleep, little one," the kind voice whispered.  "You have told us what we needed to know.  We will talk when you are better."  With a sigh, Pippin did.

* * * * *

      When next he awoke, it was deep night, for the misty murkiness had evolved into true darkness.  Pippin could not even see the stars.  His hurts had diminished to a dull throb that echoed throughout his body with every beat of his heart.  His head hurt the most, a sharp, burning pain like a brand had been inserted through the back of his neck and angled up to his eyes.  

      Pippin didn't remember the previous night being so dark.  Odd.  The clouds must be so thick that they hid all the light given off by the heavens.  Last night wasn't so unrelievedly black.  No, he clearly remembered the stars shining through the smoke of the fireworks, winking and clear and cold as the rocket-sparks were hot and sparkling.  Never would he forget that** sight.  A firework from Gandalf that had been all his own, made especially for him!  And the others had been amazing too. So very beautiful...  He smiled in remembrance, then grimaced as swollen skin pulled.  _"Ow,"_ he murmured, allowing himself the smallest of complaints.**

      Immediately there was a rustle of cloth and the sensation of movement at his side.  "Good morning, little one," a cheerful voice said.  "Are you feeling better?"

      "Yes, thank you," Pippin replied, struggling to focus on something.  "Please forgive me – I did not give you my name.  I am Peregrin Took, son of Paladin, at your service … or rather, in your debt.  But everyone calls me Pippin."

      A hand was checking the bandage that had been wrapped about his head at some point.  Pippin craned his neck obediently to the side in response to a gentle push.  His hands were wrapped, too, and the bandages felt as if they were wound too tightly.  "It is our pleasure to meet you, Peregrin son of Paladin.  I am Brendion and this, my companion Granlion.  We are scouts sent out from Imladris, and are returning with news for our lord."  The hand stroked his hair again, and Pippin sighed in relief; the gentle hand seemed to contain in it some ability to lessen his pain.  "And now, it seems," the voice continued with a smile lurking in it, "we shall take back to our lord more than mere news."

      Pippin started to shake his head, found that to be a very bad idea, and immediately stopped.  Brendion probably wouldn't have seen the gesture in such dark as this anyway, not even with Elf-eyes.  "Oh, no, I can't go with you.  I have to find Merry and Frodo and Sam and Legolas and Aragorn."

     "Aragorn?"  This was the other voice, and Pippin turned his head towards it. The fire burned warmer on his face on this side, and he caught the herbal scent of tea of some sort. 

     "Aragorn son of Arathorn," supplied the tweenager helpfully.  "He's in charge of our walking party.  Well, when we let him be.  He's quite nice, really, but he doesn't play fair in riddle-games."  He paused and resisted the urge to rub his throbbing ear.  "They will be terribly worried about me, Merry especially."

      The Elves digested this in silence.  Pippin was quiet, too, trying to work around his aching head and pin down what was bothering him.  Something was wrong, very, very wrong. He could feel the fire on his face, smell the tea brewing, and Brendion had said …he had said… Then after a long, dreadful moment, he whispered, "Morning?"

      Movement above his head, and Pippin felt a slight breeze pass over his cheeks.   "How many fingers am I holding up, little … I mean, Pippin?"

      Pippin stared before him.  Suddenly his heart rose in his throat and he lashed out with a small arm.  His hand slapped against something before his face and Pippin clutched, feeling leather and soft-woven cloth in his hand.  A wrist, then a hand with long, slender fingers.  But his eyes saw nothing before him but deepest night.

* * * * *

     "He is sleeping again," Granlion murmured, sinking down cross-legged to sit next to his scouting-partner.  "He is very frightened."

     "So would I be, if I found my sight was gone," Brendion returned, stirring the fire.  The Elves had offered the little creature journey-bread and strips of salted meat, but he had refused all food, curling up into a ball and sobbing piteously.  Granlion had tried to comfort the little one, but he had only curled up tighter and cried for "Merry," hiccupping and choking so that it was impossible to make out more.  That had helped neither Pippin's eyes nor his head, and pain and residual shock had finally driven him to find surcease in sleep. 

     "There is no doubt that this little one is one of our lord's guests?" asked Brendion.  

     "No doubt.  He is kin to the Ringbearer.  I do think I remember seeing him, briefly, during the execution of a … small wager I placed with Raolilth."

    Brendion smiled, his fair features lightening.  "I remember.  Lord Elrond declared all of the wagers void, as I recall."

    "I am greatly pleased to hear this young one say that the Ringbearer is well enough to travel to see the geyser," Granlion replied, adroitly changing the subject.  "Do you not think we should take Pippin back to them?"

      "We have our own duties, Granlion," the senior Elf reminded the junior.  "And in any case, having lost this small one, Estel will lead them back by the straightest route.  If we ride hard, we can finish and perhaps arrive in Imladris not long after them."

      "I sorrow to think of Estel mourning this little one as dead," Granlion said softly.  "But I agree that we cannot abandon our responsibilities to search for his party to return Pippin."  Both Elves were silent then, until Pippin drew them to him with soft cries when he opened his eyes and could still see only darkness.

* TBC *


	27. Decisions To Be Made

(Author's Note:  Robin Girl, you wanted meanness!  I deliver and am reviled!  LOL!  Smalldiver, I'm honored. I bet that list grows and grows.  Shirebound, thank heavens _someone_ is listening to me as I blame this plot line on Marigold… Ariel3, nothing like trying a new genre in front of so many people in an established story … I'm so grateful folks have been tolerant.  Aratlithiel1, I have this mental picture of you counting on your fingertips, brow frowning in concentration…  Lady Eleclya, I hope this story never becomes dull and predictable!  QTPie-2488, as for your question about the scouting party's news … I was thinking of the Men that tried to capture the hobbits earlier, and also had in mind the events of "The Ruin of Men and Elves."  Will that satisfy?  Baylor, dragon's teeth hold great significance in Asian mythology and as I spent three years living in Taiwan, I hope to pull in some of those wonderful stories.  Sam dear, soon.  I can't stand Merry suffering, either.   And Bookworm2000 assures me that we aren't (sick, that is).  Shireling, it's Marigold!  She's forcing me to make up for all the times danger has passed Pip by.  Endymion2, I've had that happen too; isn't it annoying?  But thank you for persevering.  Wanequelle, of course!  But as I said earlier, anything short of actual death is fair game…  Bookworm2000, I will repeat that to myself when guilt strikes … we are just taking pleasure in our unique pastimes … we are _not_ sick!  Firnsarnien, do we dance around with words or what?  Kit5, to mangle an old saying, "fortune smiles on drunks and fools and tweenaged hobbits."  LilyBaggins, oh yes.  Oh, yes, indeedy…  Coriandra, I agree with you and so do Pippin's rescuers.  Arabelle thorne, oh, the twists and turns….  I'm going to owe Pippin big after this, and all the hobbits.  My thanks, as always, to Marigold for whacking me into coherency and for her careful beta-reading and corrections and to all of you, who have expressed in such enjoyment in this story and stayed along for the ride.)   

Chapter 27:  Decisions To Be Made

      "Is there nothing we can do?" asked Granlion.  The Elven scout's eyes were anguished as he rocked the small body in his arms carefully.  Pippin slept now, worn out with sobbing and terror.  Bruises were blossoming all along his body, deep purple-black blotches that gave silent testimony to many unfelt (at the time) collisions with the rough sides of the rock tunnel. 

      "I am not a healer," returned Brendion.  "He has no broken bones, and naught to show for this morning's adventure but scrapes and bruises, and that deep gash over his ear.  That is the cause of his blindness, I fear."

      "How so?"  Granlion kept his voice soft and soothing, the light, warm monotone betraying none of his anxiousness.

     Brendion reached across and ran his fingers lightly just above the bandaged side of the young hobbit's head.  The bandage had been soaked in icy river-water and it felt slimy and cold.  "His skull was not broken or fractured, which is a miracle in itself.  But he took a hard blow, and there is swelling underneath the skin and I fear within the skull.  Such swelling presses against the brain, against the conductors of light and sight to the eyes.  No wonder he thought it was night when he awoke earlier and could see nothing.  Pressed too long … the damage is permanent.  It can even kill should the pressure become too great." 

      The younger Elf had no reply to that.  Instead, he held the limp form gently as Brendion re-wetted the bandage about the little one's head, pouring onto it the still-cold water of the river from his water skin.

      "We must go," Brendion murmured.  "We cannot linger.  If we do our last check and ride hard, we might arrive home before the sun sets on the morrow."

      "Ride hard…" repeated Granlion.  "I fear to jostle this one too much.  We are not healers, as you said.  What if there are internal injuries?  What if there is bleeding inside the skull?"

     The senior Elf hesitated, then laid a gentle hand against Pippin's cheek.  "I have heard our lord talk of freezing water actually reducing injury – the vessels that carry blood constrict and retard bleeding.  He seems warmer now, at least."  Pippin snuffled in his sleep and wiggled himself closer to the warm chest against him.  Brendion's resolve faded as a small hand emerged from the blankets and sought about in unconscious need for reassurance.  Brendion caught the seeking hand carefully in his own, avoiding the ends of the tiny fingers where the nails had been torn away.  The little hand tightened around his fingers, warm and clinging.  The Elf rubbed his thumb gently over the back of the little hand then guided it back down and under the blanket, pulling the covering up warmly to the tiny chin.  Pippin sighed, comforted, and slept on.

      "You will take him back to Imladris," Brendion said.  "I will continue our circuit and report home upon completion.  Take Pippin to our lord – he will know what can be done to help the little one."

      "Thank you," whispered the younger Elf.  

      Brendion nodded shortly.  "Ride quickly, but carefully.  Tell our lord of the signs of Men we have found."

      "I will."  Granlion rose gracefully from his cross-legged position, cradling the sleeper in his arms.  Brendion assisted him in mounting and handed him the reins.  "Peace, my friend," he murmured to the great Elven-charger, who had craned his long neck around curiously to examine their little passenger.  The horse bobbed his head once then stood waiting.

     "May Elbereth guide your steps and keep you safe," said the older Elf, in benediction and in parting.  "Both of you."

* * * * *

      Though they searched diligently, the walking party could find no further evidence of Pippin's expulsion from the rocky tunnel in the area where his cloak and its fantastical burden had been discovered.  When he was absolutely certain that nothing more could be learned among the rocks and icy eddies, Aragorn motioned them onward. 

      "Stay close to the banks, but not so close that you might fall in yourselves," the Ranger cautioned them.  "Call me immediately if you see any sign and take care not to disturb anything that you might find.  Footprints, evidence of dragging…"  Never did Aragorn say, "or his body," but the others heard it anyway.

      The hobbits were very quiet, without the noisy, cheerful calling back and forth by which Aragorn had learned to keep track of them.  A sharp pang of sorrow sliced through the Ranger; it was as if the loss of Pippin had hollowed out the heart of the hobbits' company.  The Ranger reflected that he had never been truly cognizant of how that young one had formed the center of the others' universe.  Sam keep glancing from the river to Frodo, tensing visibly when his master's path took him close to the swift water.  Frodo was oblivious, totally focused on examining every inch of shore.  The Ranger was certain that not even an ant would escape his notice.  But it was Merry who drew his gaze and his worry the most.  The young halfling scrubbed at a steady stream of involuntary tears and if he raised his eyes at all, it was only to search the ground around him.  Legolas' gaze followed Aragorn's, sorrow in his starry gaze, and shook his head.  

      Again it was the Elf whose keen eyes made the discovery, ranging farther from the shores, leaving the more obvious ground for those less skilled at tracking than he.  Where the grass trailed off and surrendered to rocky sand and pebbles, Legolas knelt, his clear eyes intent.  "Aragorn!  Aragorn!"

       The hobbits and the Man converged on the Elf, both fear and hope warring in their eyes.  Legolas caught Merry before he could fling himself to the ground, lifting the trembling hobbit and gently moving him back.  "Let Aragorn look, little one," he whispered.  After a moment, Merry nodded and let Frodo wind an arm around his waist.

       Aragorn sank to his knees before the scuffed earth, silent and rapt with attention.  Wordlessly he motioned them all back, pointing that they should stand off to the left.  "Over there," he directed.  "We must none of us obscure the back trail."

      "What back trail?" Sam burst out.  "Please, sir, what is it?"

       It was Legolas who answered, reassurance in his voice.  "There are two sets of prints that leave the grassy swath here and venture out towards the water.   They are slender and step lightly, hardly leaving an imprint in the grass or sand."

      Aragorn sat back and rested his palms on his thighs, staring towards the river.  "Elves."

      "Elrond's folk," murmured Legolas.  "A scouting party, perhaps?  One of those sent out to gather news of the Enemy?" 

      "I would think it likely.  A scouting party, or perhaps a pleasure hunt.  Though they walk lightly, without the deeper indentation of the heels that would indicate a successful hunt.  Yes, I would think a scouting party.  Either way, they would be mounted." 

      "What has this to do with Pippin?" asked Frodo's soft voice.

      "Perhaps nothing.  Perhaps everything.  They might have merely needed to refill their water skins, and chose a convenient place.  That low boulder we passed slows the stream and diverts the water into that little eddy."  So saying, the Man cautioned them all to stay where they were and went to the small sandy area of shore.  They saw his back stiffen, then he sank down again and peered at the earth.

      "What?  What is it?"  This time it was Merry who spoke, the first words he had uttered since he had broken down in Frodo's arms, hours ago.  His voice was hoarse and a world of grief was throttled down in it.

     For a moment Aragorn did not reply, his gaze traveling back up the bank.  "One set of prints wades into the water here … the second joins it, running.  See how the length between the strides of the second prints increases?"  He cast about on the shore, keen eyes searching.  "They go in, they go in … and come out … _here_!  Look – one of the Elves is carrying something!  See how much more deeply his feet press into the soft ground?  The sand is pushed aside and the pebbles trodden into the earth." 

       The hobbits broke from Legolas' light grasp and ran down to him then, but Aragorn did not reprimand them.  They were careful, even in their desperate hope, and did not trample the telltale track.  Merry fell to his hands and knees, his snubbed nose bare inches from the sign, but could make little of the disturbed soil.  "Then what?  Aragorn, then _what?"_

       "Easy, lad," murmured Frodo softly.

       The Ranger gently inched Merry back.  "Something was laid down here – these larger rocks have been slid out of the way.  I can make nothing of the depression but –"  Suddenly Aragorn fell silent and crouched down, his nose but inches from the ground.  The others crowded around him, except for Legolas, whose Elven-eyes spared him the need to peer so at the ground.  Small brown specks dotted some of the rocks, hardly distinguishable from flecks on the river-stones.  But when Aragorn picked one of the stones up to examine it, the tiny droplets rubbed off on his hand, leaving a smear of red.

      "Blood," whispered Aragorn.   

      "Is it Pippin?  Is he alive?" Merry half-sobbed, rising to his knees.  Frodo crouched next to him and again slid his arm around Merry's waist, pulling him close, and Sam placed a hand on his shoulder.

     "If what was pulled from the river was Pippin," the Ranger said, his own words on a hobbit's ability to 'bounce back' echoing through his mind, "then I would say they picked him up and would no doubt tend to him."  As he was speaking, his eyes were roving over the rough terrain.  "There!  The prints go up back into the forest.  That will make them more difficult to track…  Elves leave little trail and the grass and trees will cover such as there is."

     "Then we follow?" asked Legolas, his eyes glowing.

     "We follow!" affirmed Aragorn, a wild hope springing in his heart.  "Forth the five hunters!"

* * * * *

     The walking party came upon the abandoned campsite scant hours later.      Two legs, no matter how willing, do not move as quickly as four and Aragorn knew that they were falling ever behind those they pursued.  He ran the cold ashes of the fire through his hands and rose to shade his eyes from the mid-day sun, staring to the north.  Coming upon the hoof-prints had eased his mind greatly.  The dainty conformation of the hooves confirmed it.  Only Elven-steeds showed such grace in their prints, and in their strides.

      While the hobbits rested, he and Legolas moved about the deserted camp, noting where the grass was just beginning to spring back after being long crushed under a seated burden.  The grass had already returned to its natural state in a second location, right next to the more crushed place, indicating that another had sat there either less long or less weighted.  It was not difficult to find the place that the horses had been; the two Elves had stayed there some time.  When he saw that one charger led north and the other away, he called Legolas to his side.

     "How are they?" Aragorn asked, with a wave towards the hobbits.  Sam lay on his back, his pack cast aside and his arms spread wide, puffing like a bellows, his round face red with exertion.  Merry had shed his pack and leaned against it near Sam, panting hoarsely and rubbing his feet.  Frodo had not even bothered to remove his pack; he had merely dropped where he stood, covered in perspiration, his entire body trembling with weariness.

     "They cannot hold the pace, Aragorn.  Hobbits are not made to run and run and run.  Frodo, especially.  He is not yet so strong, though he would deny it and keep on until his heart bursts from the strain."

     Aragorn nodded.  He had noted with growing alarm the Ringbearer's high color and the increasing difficulty with which Frodo moved.  He and Legolas could have easily outdistanced the hobbits, but he refused to split what remained of the walking party further.  Even within Rivendell's borders, this excursion had shown there was danger to the small folk.  He would not risk more ill happenstances.

      He had demanded the hobbits lighten their loads, cast away all unnecessary weight from their packs (nearly causing a revolt from Sam when the little gardener found out that dictate included his treasured cooking pots).  Since then they had raced without rest, walking, trotting and running as wolves do, to cover great distance in little time. 

     "And now they have separated," Aragorn said.  Legolas' keen eyes had already seen the divergence of the two sets of hoof-prints.  "Which do we follow?  Pippin's slight weight does not add enough to a horse's trail to determine which way he has gone."

      "One of the riders carries him to Elrond, Aragorn.  I am certain of it."

      "I think so, too.  We will follow the northern trail then."  Aragorn turned to rouse the hobbits but Legolas caught his arm.  

      "You cannot ask them to go on like this, Aragorn.  They are all nearly finished, and I fear for Frodo."

     "What are we to do, then?"  Aragorn gritted out the words, frustration in his tone.  "We dare not leave them."

      Legolas had been staring at the delicate hoof-prints in the grass.  He smiled then, and the Man's heart lifted, knowing that joyous look of old.  "I have an idea.  We must talk to Sam."

      The stocky hobbit was still breathing heavily when the two called him over and spoke to him in swift, urgent voices.  He stared at them in guilty disbelief, his round face paling.

     "Hand it over, Sam," Aragorn ordered.  "We know you have it."

     Sam flushed while Frodo and Merry stared at him in puzzlement.  Caught, he trudged reluctantly back to his pack, untied it and dug around, emerging with his fist clutched tightly around the handle of his last remaining cooking pot.  Frodo struggled to his feet and trailed after him back to the two, and Merry followed a moment later, his breath restored enough to be curious.

     "We will overlook the fact that I told you to discard all unnecessary weight," Aragorn said graciously.  "It is well that you kept one hidden.  And the sack?  I know a hobbit would not discard that." 

     Wordlessly, Sam handed the Ranger a lumpy draw-string bag.  Aragorn loosened it and poured its entire contents into the pot, shook it, then emptied his water skin into it.  He stirred the mixture with a forefinger, then withdrew the digit and licked it.  "Now, if you will make a fire, we will see what the smell of this little concoction attracts."

     Sam spaded over the last shovelful of earth for the fire pit as Merry dumped a armful of firewood and Frodo arranged it carefully, constructing the small pyramid with an opening at the base for the fire to draw.  Legolas had already found two forked sticks and cut a long branch, stripping it of leaves.  The Elf rammed the sticks into the earth and ran the branch through the pot's handle, hanging it above the growing fire. 

     Despite being stared at by five sets of impatient eyes, the watched pot boiled quickly.  Sam covered his nose and moved upwind.  "Smells right awful," he complained.  "And I'm never going 'ta get that sticky mess out of me pan.  Me favorite pan," he added mournfully.

     "Burning sugar-water may smell bad to you and I, Sam," Aragorn said, "but to others it is a perfume sweeter than nectar and ambrosia.  And they would come long distances to obtain it."

      "Horses," breathed Merry.  

      Legolas laughed softly.  "Elrond frees his steeds when they are past the age of service, or when they have performed some great feat worthy of the act.  You attended one such ceremony yourself, did you not?"

     "Yes," Merry murmured, remembering.  "Pippin and I –" for a moment his voice quavered, then he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, continuing on determinedly.  "Pippin and I were there when he freed Inmara, for her service to Elladan and Elrohir and us.  That old mare saved our lives, you know.  They wove flowers in her mane and tail…"

     "There are several such small herds of retired mounts scattered throughout Imladris," Aragorn confirmed.  "And all horses, every horse, loves sugar.  If any are within scenting-distance, they will come."

      "So we wait?" This from Frodo, who was still struggling to hide the high color in his face and the trembling of his hands.

      Aragorn looked at him with concern.  "We wait." 

* TBC * 


	28. Adrift in the Darkness

(Author's Note:  Sunhawk, you 'got it in one!' Good for you, smalldiver, you picked up on that reference.  Alert reading!  Shirebound and endymion2, I must confess I've never tried the sugar-water trick myself – we always backpacked.  Roaming herds of horses are hard to find in Alaska.  Bookworm2000, oh yes. You _knew _I couldn't bear to leave the lad lost and alone _and_ blind!  QTPie-2488, you really drop everything to read an update?  That is so sweet of you to tell me that!  LilyBaggins, some nice juicy Frodo-angst would be delightful but I couldn't wander off the plotline here that much.  I've been toying with the idea of short one-chapter 'adventures' of the hobbits in Rivendell, working in the ideas I couldn't find room for in this story.  Firnsarnien, the enthusiasm in your review made me laugh.  Then I wanted to sniff your coffee.   Baylor and Coriandra and Layla, I would have loved to reunite Inmara with the hobbits, but just couldn't stretch the bounds of possibility that far.  I'm sorry!  Sam, 'my' Sam is less sweet-natured and trusting then Tolkien's, I think.  But there is precedent, such as Sam drawing his sword and standing over Frodo when Strider returns after the attack on Weathertop.  Aratlithiel1, I worry about them too.  In my fics and other peoples'.  And oh dear, you just introduced another plot bunny … a humorous short story along the lines of "Leavetaking…"  Arabella thorne, so glad you enjoyed it!  Kit5, the aroma of roasted mushrooms, maybe?  Loved your comment on the chocolate-chip cookies – how true!  Distortion, you are right.  I'm not even sure where, but somewhere around chapter 2, maybe?  TTTurtle, I'd _love_ to listen to a round table discussion on why we enjoy angst.  Lady Eleclya, and beautiful and wise and superior … I really enjoyed smudging Legolas up in "Some Nameless Place".  Once again, my thanks to Marigold – she was right; the 'stickses' seem undeterred by distance.  God bless the Internet.) 

Chapter 28:  Adrift in the Darkness 

      So the walking party waited, ears straining to catch the hoped-for thunder of hooves.   The burning sugar water smelled abominable and the hobbits put their hands over their noses if they had to pass through the drifting smoke.  Not one to waste an opportunity, Sam laid more tinder and enlarged the fire to start preparing a quick meal of roasted rabbits.  Legolas had shot them on the run, the Elf's arrows as true as if he stood and drew the great bow at his leisure.  The sturdy hobbit had quickly skinned and skewered the coneys, and Merry now sat turning the spit, again quiet and unspeaking.  Legolas took the watch, standing atop of a small boulder that gave the Elf a partially unobstructed view of the surrounding forest.  

      "Aragorn?"  The Ranger turned from breaking up more branches to see Frodo and Samwise standing behind him.  He cast the branches onto the small pile of firewood he had gathered and wiped his hands on his cloak.  Frodo slipped his hand into Aragorn's and gently tugged him farther from the fire.  

      "Yes, Frodo?" he replied.

      The two hobbits exchanged a glance then looked over at Merry.  Frodo's younger cousin's back was to them, and he sat with knees drawn up to his chin, minding the roasting rabbits with the single-minded abstraction that he had displayed ever since Pippin's accident.  Frodo edged closer to Aragorn and Sam followed, both wearing worried expressions.

      "I'm frightened for Merry, Aragorn," the Ring-bearer whispered softly.  "I've never seen him act like this.  I know he blamed himself for not being able to … prevent what happened to me on Weathertop.  No one … no one could have…" Frodo stopped, his face paling, and Sam moved closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder.  Frodo inhaled deeply and continued, "It has always been Merry's nature to try to shoulder too much responsibility upon himself.  Then you all went on that scouting trip and he and Pippin got into trouble, and then the disaster with the lessons.  He really could have killed Pip with that ill-thrown knife, you know. So does he.  I fear…  If we don't find Pippin safe and well, I fear what he might do."

     "Would he seek to injure himself?"  Aragorn crouched down, and the hobbits crowded close.  Sam did not contribute to the conversation, but his anxious grey eyes darted between them and the subject of their concern.  

      "It is not our way," said Frodo slowly, "to follow a loved one into death.  But those two lads … they are so close, Aragorn.   I myself cannot … cannot imagine returning home to Pippin's parents and sisters without him.  Merry most certainly feels the same but even more keenly.  They have been inseparable since Pippin was born.  I cannot picture Merry without Pippin by his side."  Frodo paused, and his blue eyes closed in pain.  "I think that … somewhere along our journey, Merry would make certain that he would not have to return home to live a life without Pippin."

      "He would suicide?" Aragorn asked, and Frodo winced.  

      "Rather, he would not move from the path of danger.  Or more likely, he would place himself before the danger, should it come," Frodo responded.  Next to Frodo, Sam nodded shortly.

     Looking from one solemn, frightened face to another, Aragorn raised his eyes to Merry's rigid back.  He had to agree.  "We will watch out for him," the Ranger said at last.  "It is all we can do."

     "Horses!  Horses!" rang out Legolas' clear voice.  The Elf leapt lightly down from the boulder, pointing to the west.  Aragorn and the hobbits turned, and Merry sprang to his feet, shading his eyes against the sun's glare. 

      For a moment they saw nothing, then they felt the ground underneath them shake and a moment later, a great rumble of hooves became audible.  Sleek, shining bodies flashed between the trees.  Aragorn threw back his head and laughed, then placed two fingers between his teeth and whistled an intricate melody.  Shrill whinnies greeted this, and the herd slowed and with much head-tossing and small playful bucks, a small group of seven curious Elven-horses stood before them.

     Not young these; their muzzles were grey and there were hollows in their flanks.  But they held their heads proudly and their silken coats shone, and grace was yet in their every movement.  Aragorn repeated the whistled melody and after a moment, a lovely bay mare with black mane and tail stepped forward.  The Ranger swiped a piece of leather into the cooling sugar-mixture and held it out to the old mare.  After a moment she dipped her head and accepted the treat, her great warm tongue licking over the leather.

      That was the signal for the others to move forward, butting eagerly with their great heads.  The sugared water was quickly divided and Legolas and the hobbits were put to work feeding it to the animals, until there was no more.  The bay mare ran her tongue regretfully around the pot then stood waiting quietly, looking at the Ranger.

      Aragorn bowed before the old mare, still whistling under his breath.  Slowly he put out a hand and scratched her between the eyes.  After a moment, the large soft brown orbs closed in bliss and she whickered softly.  He murmured to her in Elvish, watching as the delicately pointed ears swiveled to listen.  Legolas, too, was stroking a horse, an old chestnut gelding with three white stockings.  A third, a black with a white star on his forehead, demanded equal attention.  Hesitantly, the hobbits reached up to stroke velvet noses and were rewarded with soft _whuffs_ of warm breath into their hands and lowered heads to allow scratching hands to reach higher. 

      "Will you help us?" asked Aragorn.  "We have lost one of our own, and need swifter means to seek him than our own slow feet.  We will ask no more of you than to carry us along his trail, and we will release you whenever you wish."  The bay mare raised her head and looked directly into his eyes.  The hobbits were amazed by the intelligence shining from the great brown eyes.  As if she felt their gazes upon her, the leader turned and looked at them, and the hobbits felt themselves being considered.  They stood straighter and attempted to brush the dust off of their clothing.

     The bay mare gave a nicker that sounded much like a laugh, then she reached out her long neck and tousled Sam's sandy hair.   Sam cupped her muzzle and laughed.  "Here now," he muttered in a soft, gravelly voice shared by all those who love horses, "a pretty lass like you can find better straw than me hair."  The mare snorted in agreement and turned to Merry and Frodo.  Merry reached up and stroked her nose, and she nuzzled him gently.  But when she moved on to Frodo, the tulip-tipped ears tilted back, and she shook her head.

      "Stand still, Frodo," Aragorn advised softly.  Frodo looked at her with great wide eyes; from his vantage, she was enormous.  The great head came down again and sniffed him thoroughly and this time she snorted.

      "She senses the Ring," said Legolas quietly.  His hand remained on the old gelding's neck while the leader made her decision, and he stroked the aged horse absently.  "She does not know what it is, but she knows it is evil."

      "Lady," Aragorn said, "this little one carries a burden which has been placed upon him out of great need by all of the Free Peoples.  The evil you sense is not him, nor of his making.  It is not a threat to you or your kin."

      But the old mare was shaking her head, lips now drawn back over yellowed, square teeth.  She stepped back and seeing this, her herd did also.  

       "No!" Aragorn beseeched, "Lady, please!  Our need is desperate –"

      "Lady," came Frodo's soft voice.  The mare stopped and eyed him suspiciously.  Frodo kept his hands at his sides, but his heart was in his face.  "Please do not deny us.  Our lost one is my kin, very young and most probably hurt.  No older than a yearling colt would be to your folk.  Leave me here, if you must, but do not refuse these my friends the chance to save his life."  He didn't voice the rest of his thought, _'If_ he still lives'."

      "Frodo, I will not allow you to be left alone –" began Aragorn, but Frodo raised his hand and the Ranger fell silent.  At that moment, he could not have gainsaid the Ring-bearer, for the grief and the dignity that shone from Frodo's face stilled any objection to the hobbit's will.  Legolas looked at Frodo with wonder, and beside him, the others were silent with astonishment.

       The old mare, too, was looking into the hobbit's face and what she found there evidently pleased her, for the great head dipped and she lipped Frodo's head, leaving his dark hair standing up in little wet spikes.  "Thank you, lady," he whispered and closed his eyes in relief.

      The old mare nodded regally.  The horses waited quietly while the roasted rabbits were gathered up and the fire put out, and the wood Aragorn had foraged collected and tied into a bundle.  Then a new problem arose.  The old gelding Legolas had been stroking snorted jealously when another horse tried to sidle between them and entice the Elf to mount.  The old gelding forcefully pushed the smaller horse away.  Legolas laughed and leapt lightly up to his back, his long hands caressing the proud, arched neck.  The smaller horse was pacified by bearing the walking party's packs and the bundle of firewood, with the other horses waiting impatiently their turn.  Even Merry smiled as he was handed up before Legolas, settling himself comfortably as he had ridden before Elrond's sons.  Sam was less comfortable being mounted pillion behind the Elf; he had no fear of huge Elven horses but the ground seemed miles away.  He closed his eyes and laid his face against Legolas' back, locking his arms around Legolas' waist.

      "Aragorn, should not the hobbits have their own mounts, or two share one?" Legolas asked, giving little indication that his ribs were creaking.  Nevertheless, Sam heard and tried to loosen his grip enough to allow the Elf to breathe.

      "I would feel better if we rode with them, Legolas," the Ranger replied.  The Elf had simply leaped up bareback, but Aragorn was folding a blanket and tying it under the bay mare's barrel, for their comfort and for hers.  He had sought to mount one of the lesser horses but the old mare had shouldered that one aside and stood waiting, claiming the riders for herself.  The cushioning blanket in place, Aragorn gently lifted Frodo up and placed the hobbit on the high back.  Frodo leaned forward slightly, fisting his hands in her mane.  "Now you must tell me if we need to stop," he admonished the hobbits.  "Merry, I will _not_ have a repeat of the saddle-soreness you suffered on our scouting trip."

     "What saddle-soreness?" asked Sam, out of sight behind Legolas.  A moment later his round face peered around the Elf, leaning carefully past him to see.

     "None to speak of, really," said Merry hastily, stringing more words together than he had since Pippin had gone into the water early that morning.  

      "He and Pippin were so sore that they waddled like ducks," elaborated the Ranger breezily,  "and so stiff that they had to spend the first evening sitting immersed to the waist in a cold stream.  Then they were so frozen they had to be carried back to camp."  From behind the Elf came a muffled snort that sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh.  

      "You didn't tell us about that, Cousin," Frodo commented blandly.  Merry glared at the ground.  Frodo grinned, then seemed to be taken by a sudden fit of coughing.  Merry flushed, the tips of his pointed ears turning red.

      "So," continued Aragorn, swinging himself up behind Frodo, pleased at having gotten any reaction out of the withdrawn young hobbit, "we will not do that again.  If any of you need a short stop, tell me."

      Both Elf and Man pressed their legs lightly over the horses' barrels, and they moved forward at a canter, the others trailing behind.

* * * * * 

      "Hush, little one," murmured Granlion.  Pippin gritted his teeth against another involuntary cry.  He had awakened to a moving and confusing world, with no up or down or surety.   Blackness swirled about him and he became disoriented, his only point of contact with the world a slender arm across his chest.  Granlion kept his arm around the small hobbit, balancing him and containing him, and Pippin was profoundly grateful for that simple, instinctual kindness.  With the framework of strong arms around him and the sudden understanding that there was a solid horse under him, he did not feel so adrift in his lonely sea of swirling darkness.

       A gentle hand touched his face.  "Good afternoon, Pippin," murmured Granlion.  "There is nothing to fear.  I am bearing you to Lord Elrond, who will no doubt be able to help you.  And do not fear – Aragorn will return to Imladris as swiftly as he may. You will be with your kin and friends again very soon."

      "Brendion?" Pippin managed, hearing only one set of hooves.  Granlion guided him to the small pommel on the high elven saddle and Pippin grasped it gratefully, wrapping the palms of his bandaged hands around it as he struggled to find his balance against the rocking motion of the walking horse.  

      "He has gone on alone to finish our rounds," the Elf replied gently.  "We may not return home with our work undone, but one can do it at need.  Taking you home quickly is the greater need."

       "Thank you," the tweenager murmured.  He was finding that the horse's rolling gait was making him nauseous.  He swallowed heavily and felt his skin break out in cold sweat.

       "Can you go back to sleep?" asked Granlion.  "It would be better for you –"  He looked down at the top of the curly head upon hearing a strangled gulp.  "Pippin?  Are you all right?"

      "The horse –" Pippin swallowed again, the warm soup he had been given before he had returned to sleep sloshing about in his stomach.  In fact, it was threatening to depart his stomach entirely.  "Oh _no_…"

      Whether the Elf understood the unspoken reference or the misery in Pippin's voice alerted him, Granlion was off the horse and laying the little hobbit on the ground almost before Pippin was aware of it.  Pippin curled up into a ball, knees into chest, and tried to order his rebellious stomach to behave.

      "It is all right," soothed the Elf.  Pippin felt a large hand rubbing his back in a slow, comforting rhythm.  "We have ridden for two hours – it is time to take a break.  We will rest for a brief time."  There was a silence, then Pippin heard, "I am going to take my horse down to the stream to water him, little one.  Will you be all right by yourself for a few minutes?"

      Still not trusting his stomach enough to speak, Pippin nodded.  A few minutes of being still would take care of the nausea, he hoped desperately.  There was a rustling sound, then something warm was laid over him.  "Rest," came the Elf's kind voice.  "I will be within hailing distance, and will be back in just a little time."  

      Pippin listened as the faint jingle of harness and the horse's hoofbeats faded; the Elf's footsteps he could not hear at all.  He pulled the blanket up around him and shivered.  Tears prickled at his closed eyes – that he should be shamefully sick in addition to everything else was almost too much.  Despite himself, a tear escaped the clenched lids.  Pippin scrubbed it away angrily, then waved his hand in front of his eyes.  He almost thought he saw a blur of movement, but another wave refuted that.  He could not see.  Pippin curled up tighter and whimpered.  

      Pippin remained so for some minutes, his terror battling with his pride.  Then with an effort, he straightened his small body and relaxed.  He had refused to be sick in front of Granlion, and he would not allow the Elf to see him frightened and weeping like an infant.  He wasn't an adult yet, but he could act like one.

      The earth quivered just the slightest amount under Pippin's cheek.  Perplexed, the young hobbit sat up and pressed his hand flat into the cool earth, as Merry had shown him at the geyser, a frown marring his features.  Granlion was certainly returning quickly.  There hadn't been time to water the horse, and he did not hear the faint jingle of harness.  Had Granlion decided to come back?  Or –

      Faint sounds came to his straining ears, rustling, the movement of great weight on the earth, heavy breaths … not from the direction that Granlion had taken his horse.  Pippin's heart began to hammer and his own breath speeded up.  He had not forgotten the wicked Men that had waylaid them before.  Suppose more of them had invaded the Valley?  He staggered to his feet and bandaged fingers sought his sword.  He almost dropped it as fire ripped through his hands, clenching his teeth against a scream that tried to tear free of his throat.  He held the weapon blindly but steadily before him and by listening intently, tried to face himself in the direction of the approaching sounds.  

* TBC *


	29. Found

 (Author's Note:  Kit5, I can finally accommodate your wish – thank heavens!  Baylor, I loved writing the horses.  They're another reason I'd love to live in Rivendell…  Wanequelle, I could never have done it if Marigold, beta-reader and writer-whip extraordinaire, hadn't forced me!  TTTurtle, I wish I could blame the cliffhangers on someone else.  I just have more fun setting them up…  Firnsarnien, claims of undiluted coffee aside, I'll have to try that 'Elf-loving' if it results in such exuberance.  Sam, I hope we can consider your desire for 'Pippin-angst' met?  I couldn't stand any more myself.  Sunhawk, here's a spoiler for being such a great reviewer … if you like (hate?) cliffhangers, be looking for "Riding the Nightmare," soon to a theater – um, to a FF.Net and SOA site near you!  Smalldiver, you get to find out in this chapter.  I hope the answer relieves your mind!  Hello, Oceansoul, thank you for letting me know you are enjoying this story.  I appreciate that.  Bookworm2000, yes, a little more.  But not much more – I can't take it!  Tathar, don't you apologize for not reviewing every chapter.  I am _not_ one to cast stones.  But I'm glad you are still enjoying it.  Aratlithiel1, inspiration comes to us in the most innocent of remarks, doesn't it.  Then I get to blame it on you.  QTPie-2488, I repeat, I'm honored and amazed.  Ariel3, thank you for noticing the research.  I am trying to be true but admit I have strayed in the interests of drama.  I so admire you and Febobe and others who stick to the medical facts.  Azaelia, to answer your question – yes!  Absolutely!  LilyBaggins, thank you for the reassurance that you'd read the shorts – we'll have to fit them in.  Arabella thorne, that's a lovely idea.  I'm not sure I could pull it off, though, without something dreadful happening.  Endymion2, write that AU story!  I would certainly read it, though I must side with the Pippin-lovers.  Coriandra, leave 'em guessing, that's my motto.  (And swearing, screaming – then begging!)  Lady Eleclya, I sincerely hope it wasn't the story that was upsetting your stomach!  Marigold, thank you again for your wonderful clairvoyance in being able to see what I'm trying to say and guiding me to find the right words.)  

Chapter 29:  Found

       _"Pippin!  Pippin!  Pippin!"_

       Pippin was running before Merry's first shrill cry of his name had faded.  With an answering howl, he flung his sword to the ground and launched himself in the direction of the so-loved voice.  Tripping over a rock, he fell flat on his face and came up spitting out a mouthful of dirt.

       Then familiar arms were encircling him, and a sweet Merry-scent filled his nostrils.  More arms, Frodo-scented, hugged him a second later so tight he squawked, laughing and choking and crying.  His inarticulate whimpers were returned twofold, his cousins' sobs and little cries of joy and disbelief eventually evolving into his name, uttered over and over again as they held him tightly.  

      Legolas swung himself down gracefully and leaned back against the old horse, joy shining from his fair features.  Folding his arms comfortably before him, he glanced up at his still-mounted passenger.  "Are you sure you don't want down yet, Sam?"

       Sam shook his head, grinning from ear to ear.  "No, sir.  I'll say hullo to the lad in a moment, when everyone calms down a bit."

       "That might be a while," commented Aragorn, rubbing his chest where Frodo's sharp elbow had dug into him as they had crested the rise to see Pippin standing before them, sword in hand, prepared to do battle.  And after all the youngster must have endured.  Amazing.  Such courage…  Had he not restrained Frodo, the hobbit would have thrown himself from the high back of the old mare (and probably have broken his neck), thought Aragorn.  Merry had managed to fling himself from his mount before Legolas could react, actually landing on his feet, running to gather Pippin into his arms.  Aragorn shook his head in astonishment and relief.

      He had thought he had seen the height of courage when Frodo defied the embodiment of evil that were the Ringwraiths, and afterwards, as the wounded hobbit fought poison and pain and despair to survive long enough to win through to Rivendell.  The Ranger had watched in silent amazement as the other three supported and defended him, and fought their own battles with exhaustion and grief and desperation.  Each day that had passed since brought new realizations about these small folk, and again and again he had seen valor from them that took his breath.  Pippin should be dead.  He _should_ be.  Aragorn had believed it in his heart, the words he had spoken to Frodo about refusing to mourn Pippin as lost until he held the lifeless body in his arms just a comfort meant to ease grieving hearts.  Truly, he had not held out any hope of finding the hobbit-lad alive, faint signs of hope aside. He had expected no more than to overtake one of Elrond's folk bearing Pippin's body back to the Last Homely House.  

       "Aragorn!"  The panic in Merry's voice wiped all other thoughts from his mind and dismounting quickly, he ran towards the small hobbit-pile, Legolas at his side.  Abandoned, Sam inched forward and wiggled down from the gelding's bare back, using the overgrown mane to drop himself to the distant earth.  The old horse bore this stoically, delicately pointed ears now laid back in distress, velvet nostrils distended to scent the sudden change of emotions.

       "Aragorn, he can't see!  Pippin can't see!"  Merry was sobbing, and so was Pippin, uttering little whimpering cries that tore the Ranger's heart.  Aragorn fell to his knees besides the hobbits, carefully pushing Frodo aside.  The Ring-bearer's face was dry of tears but dreadfully white; he looked as if he might faint.  Displaced from hugging his little cousin, Frodo wrapped his arms around Pippin's knees, as if to keep the tweenager from going anyplace else.

       "Merry, move back.  Now!"  He pried the young hobbit's hands from cupping Pippin's cheeks and bodily moved Merry back.  "Hullo, Pippin," Aragorn said in reassuring tones, summoning long years of a healer's necessary dispassion to override the sudden fear in his heart.  "You have given us quite a fright.  Merry says you are having trouble seeing?"  As he spoke, he waved a hand before the young one's face, and was terrified to see the bright gold-green eyes did not track the movement.  He looked up upon hearing a soft gasp from Legolas and saw Frodo's white face pale even more as Merry bit down hard on his lip to prevent a cry.  

       Pippin was hiccupping so hard he could barely speak.  Tears continued to well from his eyes and run down his face in a torrent.  One small hand stayed tightly locked in both of Merry's.  Pippin's head turned towards him as he spoke, pointed ears twitching.  "Are you all here?" he asked, gulping.  "Is Legolas all right?"  The other hand sought about him, trying to touch them all and reassure himself of their reality. 

       The Elf sank to a crouch behind Aragorn, reaching out to capture the flailing hand for a moment.  "I am here, little one.  Thanks to you.  That was most brave, Pippin dear heart, to push me back to safety as you did.  Now answer Aragorn's questions and let him examine you."  Legolas' face was serene but Aragorn knew him well enough to see the alarm behind the calm façade.   

      "Sam?" called Pippin, intent on making sure that everyone was accounted for.

      "Right here, Mr. Pippin," assured Sam in a calm voice.  The stocky hobbit was standing perfectly still, but his hands were clamped together so tightly that small red lines were beginning to seep unnoticed from his palms.  Wordlessly, Legolas reached over and pulled his hands apart and Sam stared down blankly at the crimson half-moon crescents caused by his own fingernails.

        "And everyone is all right?" persisted Pippin.  "No one is hurt?"  Aragorn was relieved to feel the rapid flutter of the youngster's heart began to slow as Pippin relaxed.

      "Everyone is fine, Pippin," confirmed Aragorn, tilting the little hobbit's head up so that the sun reflected in the blank pupils.  "_We_ did not decide to take a winter swim in a lovely subterranean river.  Can you blink your eyes for me?"

      Pippin laughed and obliged, then gasped as his bruises pulled over the sore ribs.  Aragorn had already unwound the bandage wrapped around the curly head and was examining the ugly gash above the hobbit's ear.  Pippin winced and pulled away, and Merry caught his head and gently rested it against his breast, cradling his little cousin like he would never let him go again.  Pippin snuggled against him, safe at last, and let Aragorn look at his injury.

       "What is the matter with him, Aragorn?"  Frodo's eyes were huge and the stark whiteness of his face momentarily diverted the Ranger from his patient.

       "Frodo, put your head between your knees or you will pass out."  Frodo glanced at him blankly.  "Legolas!" snapped the Ranger, impatience and worry in his tone.

      Before the Elf could intervene, Sam's even voice penetrated Frodo's daze.  "Mr. Frodo, sir, you got 'ta do what Strider says," Sam interjected.  Sam pushed on his shoulders and Frodo blinked and leaned forward, but his gaze never wavered from his young cousin's face.  Sam stood behind him, resting a bleeding hand on his shoulder, watching Aragorn's every move.

      Aragorn noted that Pippin's pupils contracted and he averted the little hobbit's face from the westering sun.  Light was reaching the eyes, then.  With gentle hands, he pressed on the skull just under the swelling, searching for a sign of fracture.  _"Ow,"_ complained Pippin, burrowing against Merry, taking comfort in his cousin's murmured repetitions of, "Hush, love.  Quiet now, my lad."

      Vaguely Aragorn registered that Legolas was no longer at his side.  Looking up, he saw the Elf a short distance off, and with him stood another Elf, with a horse behind him, watching them with forward-pricked ears, its head raised to catch their scent.  Seeing his eyes upon them, they came forward.  "Granlion," murmured Aragorn in greeting.  "I had forgotten that you and Brendion would be patrolling this area."

      "Most fortunate for this little one that we were," returned the newcomer with a smile for the staring hobbits.  "You are Pippin's kin, I assume?"

     Frodo rose to his feet and bowed, clutching at Sam's arm for support.  "Frodo Baggins, sir, at your service and your family's."  He swayed slightly and Sam steadied him.  "I owe you … more than you can possibly imagine.  Thank you for saving the life of my cousin."  Sam bowed after Frodo had finished, grey eyes brilliant, and the Elf smiled at them both.  Merry could find no words to say to Pippin's rescuer but his heart was reflected in his face and his gratitude shone in his tearing eyes.  Granlion acknowledged his silent thanks with a long hand laid for a moment on Merry's head.  Then his eyes returned to Frodo and he returned the hobbit's bow. 

      The Elf laughed, his clear eyes sparkling.  "He had already saved it himself, Master Baggins.  I am Granlion, a scout of Imladris.  Pippin had crawled from the river onto a rock and was clinging like a limpet when we found him.  Brendion and I merely warmed him and treated his hurts.  I was riding back with him when you came upon us."  He turned to Aragorn and said, "Brendion has gone on to complete our rounds.  I had hoped to arrive home before you, and spare you … as much distress as possible."

      Aragorn nodded shortly, listening as his sensitive hands traced the outline of Pippin's head and gently turned his head on his neck, feeling the play of bones and tendons with the movement.  He could find no obvious fracture, and no injury beyond the gash and much swelling and bruising.  The hobbit's small size and light weight would account for some of the lack of serious injury, but most was simply luck.  Legolas most probably would have drowned had he gone into the icy water.  He pressed farther down Pippin's spine, ignoring the involuntary gasps as bruises pulled.  Merry hugged Pippin to him tighter and the Man had to push aside his hands to check the tender ribs.  Aragorn briefly examined Pippin's bandaged hands, satisfied with the work there. 

      "He could not see when you found him, Granlion?"  Aragorn's hands returned to Pippin's face, and the tweenager felt them trace his eyesockets, warm and smooth.

     "No," murmured Granlion, and Pippin again felt the pain-easing caress across his brow and cheeks as the Elf stroked his face.

     "I could see a little," volunteered Pippin.  "I thought it was night … very misty … then I went to sleep, and…" he faltered and Merry hugged him tighter, looking over Pippin's head at the others with desperation in his blue eyes.  Pippin took another breath.  "And when I woke up, I couldn't see at all."          

     "I see," said Aragorn neutrally.  "And did your eyes hurt?  Your head?"

     "No," murmured Pippin thoughtfully.  "I mean, yes, after I warmed up enough to feel it.  My head ached dreadfully.  And my hands hurt terribly.  Everything is better now," he said reassuringly to Merry, as if trying to spare his elder cousins more grief on his behalf.

     "What is wrong, Aragorn?" asked Frodo.  Aragorn noted that Sam had pushed him down again, and he blessed the little gardener's common sense.  Frodo still looked like he was about to keel over at any moment.  

     "I do not know exactly, Frodo.  It might be only pressure on the nerves that supply the eyes with sight – if so, Pippin's sight will gradually return as the swelling goes down.  Elrond will know better.  Pippin, are you strong enough to move on, or do you need to rest awhile?"   As he was speaking, he was re-winding the makeshift bandage, tucking it securely around the tweenager's head.  Pippin grimaced.

     "I…  I didn't feel very well when I was riding with Granlion," he admitted slowly.  "I felt like I didn't know which was up, or down, and the darkness made me feel as though I was spinning all around.  I think I am better now."  Pippin felt leather-clad arms pry him away from Merry and gather him up, blanket and all.  He tried to wrap his arms around Aragorn's neck and whacked him on the nose.  "Sorry."

     "That's all right, Pippin."  The young hobbit could hear the smile in the Ranger's voice, and he relaxed a little more.  "I am going to carry you, and Granlion will lead my horse.  That way, you will rest horizontally in my arms and that should keep you from feeling ill."

     "Your horse?" asked Pippin.  "I thought I heard horses!  I was afraid it might be…" for a moment his voice faltered then continued more softly.  "That it might be those wicked Men."  Aragorn hugged him gently, and reassured, Pippin nestled in the warm arms.  "Where did you get horses?  How many horses?"  The flow of questions was interrupted by a yawn.  "How … how did you…"  another yawn and Pippin was asleep.

      "Has he slept a great deal?" Aragorn asked of Granlion.  While Aragorn had been questioning Pippin, the Elf had retrieved the hobbit's small sword, and now carefully sheathed it in Pippin's scabbard.  The Elf nodded in reply to the Ranger's question, his eyes on his own mount, who had been greeting the small herd that had borne the walking party. 

     "Yes.  He has been awake only a little while, to tell us who he was and have a bit of soup and let us treat his hurts, then he slept again and just woke up a short time ago.  I think he must have lost a great deal of blood from that head wound before we found him.  Is this sleeping a danger?"

     "It might be."  Aragorn was aware of the other hobbits crowding around him, their hands on Pippin's blanket-covered feet, just needing to touch him.  With this small escort of hobbits pressing about him, Aragorn walked to the bay mare and extended the blanket-wrapped bundle to her.  "This is our lost young one," he said softly.  "We have found him, thanks to you.  Will you bear us to Imladris, that we may take him to Lord Elrond?"

      The old mare extended her graceful neck and nosed the blanket.  Pippin murmured in his sleep, sharp face creased with pain.  She looked into the small face then up into the Man's and nodded gracefully, a single up-and-down dip of her shapely head.  "Thank you," whispered Aragorn, and heard it echoed by other soft voices.  Aragorn turned and placed Pippin in Legolas' arms, then mounted and reached down to take the sleeping hobbit back.  The old horse stood very still, then under Granlion's guidance, began to walk as smoothly as the wind over grass, mindful that her rider needed his arms to carry the hurt little one.

     Frodo now rode before the Imladris scout, and riding behind them with Merry and Sam, Legolas could hear the Ring-bearer murmuring questions about Pippin and his fellow Elf answering him.   Aragorn rode silently between the other horses, eyes distant with worry but his arms were ever steady around the slumbering tweenager.  

     They rode until true darkness fell, then Granlion turned around in the saddle and asked, without raising his voice, if they should camp for the night.   They had stopped only once, to trade off horses.  Now Legolas rode the black with the star on his forehead, and Aragorn a silver-grey mare.  The bay leader walked beside them, stiff but unwilling to concede her place to weariness and age.  All of the hobbits were sleeping in the saddle, heads lolling on their shoulders with weariness.  Aragorn looked at them, warring needs on his face as he pitted their exhaustion against the severity of Pippin's injury.

     Aware that they had stopped moving, Frodo dragged himself back to full wakefulness and shook his head to clear it.  He looked up at Granlion then twisted before him to peer through the murky darkness at Aragorn.  "Are we there yet?  How is Pip?"

     "He still sleeps," the Ranger whispered in reply.  "And we are hours yet from home.  All of us are weary and in need of rest.  Yet I leave it to you, Frodo, for you are eldest of your kin.  Do we camp or do we continue?"

     The hobbit was silent for a moment, his eyes sorrowful as he looked at Merry and Sam.  Merry had slumped forward before Legolas, sound asleep, laying with his face crushed into the black's neck, his arms dangling limply.  Sam too slept, his arms entwined in the Elf's belt, effectively securing him in his seat like a sack of grain tied to the saddle.  Frodo smiled tiredly at the sight and shifted, trying to ease his aching rear and legs.  "Let us continue on," he said softly, "if Granlion and our good mounts agree.  Please … I want to get him to Elrond as quickly as possible."

     Aragorn nodded.  "I think that is the wisest course.  What say you, friends?"

Elven and equine nods answered him.  "Very well.  We go on."  He pressed the silver mare with his legs and she moved into a walk.  "At this pace, we should arrive at the House before dawn."

* * * * *

      Elrond Halfelven stood on the balcony of his suite, the disquiet in his heart prompting him to seek this peaceful place in the pre-dawn morning.  A slight breeze lifted his unbound hair and stirred the dark tendrils over his face.  The world was still the soft lavender color that shades the air before the sun rises, and the first bird calls were sounding, a faint concert of pipes and woodwinds and the little trilling songs that sounded like flutes and piccolos. 

     _They will be returning soon_, the Elf-lord thought_.  I have done as much as I can.  I hope it is enough…  _He rested his long hands on the stone railing and leaned forward, his attention drawn to the southern road into his home.  Keen elven eyes focused on the distant dots_.  No, too many, and mounted.  But … surely that is Estel?  I know his seat – and Granlion? With Frodo mounted before him?  Estel also rides with someone before him… but Granlion leads the horse, for Aragorn is carrying…  _Then in a sweep of heavy robes, the Elf-lord was striding through his quarters, calling urgently for the heating of water and the assemblage of his medicines and instruments.

* TBC *


	30. Home

(Author's Note:  Baylor, I love fics too where Aragorn treats the hobbits with such respect, as in your "Splashing and Sputtering."  Pernauriel, ah, that's a tale.  "Recovery" got too big and bulky to manage, and some people said they were hesitate to start it because of its length so I cut it off at 30 chapters and started afresh in "Renewal."  Then I changed my mind and combined them for the SOA site.  Allyrien Chantel de Montreve, thank you!  I'm glad you are!  Coriandra, just a little more then I'll consider the venture complete.  Smalldiver!  I'm shocked you would say that!  (That it is true is besides the point. ;) )   Ariel3, thank you, and it is mutual.  Sam, I'm glad you liked it.  Thank you for being so persistent.  Sunhawk, I know the feeling.  Robin Girl, I should thank you too for pushing me for 'Pippin-angst.'  Wanequelle, I _do_ focus on Frodo, don't I?  I can only point to the premise explored in "All Evil Things" – evil things (and writers) are attracted to the Ring-bearer.  Lindelea, I had to laugh.  I think all those stories are rattling you.  It amazes me how you handle so many at once.  Katakanadian, hopefully it's not getting dull!  Gershwen, I don't know if this story is a 'marvel,' but I thank you so much for the kind words.  Firnsarnien, I've read some fics where Elrond did use extra-normal healing abilities (cool idea), but I don't envision him using more than knowledge, skill and a little elven magic.  Endymion2, seriously, consider it.  Writing is a great stress-reliever.  LilyBaggins, with the events of "Out of All Knowledge," I couldn't bear to hurt the poor, suffering hobbit any more.  And OOAK is going to get worse…  QTPie-2488, oh no, not yet.  Not yet!  Bookworm2000, your argument is flawless.  Arabella Thorne, thank you for the compliment on my descriptions.  They are so important in setting a scene.  Layla, I'm glad you are enjoying the story.  And regards to Merry.  Mine sit on my shoulder for a few seconds before flying down to stomp on my keyboard.  Or peck at the letters on the screen.  Kimby, can't you just see Aragorn saying that?  He'd say he was a bit 'under the weather' if you ran him through with a sword.  Lady Eleclya, I'm glad it wasn't the story!  As to your question … well, all things must end eventually.  But not quite yet.  As always, my thanks to the irreplaceable Marigold – how I could love to claim I was just testing you with that last embarrassing error … yes, I would love to claim that …)      

Chapter 30:  Home

      By the time the riders wove their way up the south road and into the sheltered valley that was Rivendell, the sun had cleared the horizon and was casting long shadows into the valley.  The base of the narrow valley floor was still in darkness, but the surrounding waterfalls and mountains were already shining with glory.  Its lord had everything he might need immediately organized and ready, with Elves standing with their arms filled with blankets and bandages and powders and ointments.  Seeing his foster father waiting impatiently in the courtyard, Aragorn kneed the silver-grey mare gently and she quickened her pace to stand before the Elf-lord and saluted him with a bowed head.

      Elrond patted her nose in recognition but his eyes were on Aragorn's strained face.  He held up his long arms and Aragorn placed the blanket-wrapped bundle in them, turning back the corner to reveal Pippin's pale face.  Behind the Ranger, Granlion was lowering Frodo to the ground, where the hobbit stood for a moment, wavering, then toppled to the ground with a groan.

      Elrond looked at him in fear but the Ring-bearer just shook his head and rolled over to sit up gingerly.  "We are just saddle-sore, my lord – we have traveled without rest since yesterday afternoon.  Please, will you look at Pippin?"

      Quickly Aragorn explained what had happened, speaking over his shoulder,  while Legolas handed him Merry then swiveled lithely in the saddle to release Sam.  Merry collapsed and Sam joined him on the ground, his round face scrunched up in pain.  Granlion clicked his tongue at the horses  – his own and the small group of retired steeds who had given their aid and they came to stand with him quietly.  The Elf-lord put aside his astonishment and sat down immediately on the courtyard step, cradling the bundle between his knees, skilled hands already examining the sleeping tweenager.

      Merry dragged himself to his feet and duck-walked over to stand at his shoulder, followed a few moments later by a white-faced Frodo and Sam, who was visibly gritting his teeth.  The Elf-lord examined Pippin's head wound carefully, seeing more with his long, sensitive fingers than with his eyes.  When he applied some pressure against the gash, Pippin whimpered and shifted but did not wake from his deep, exhausted sleep.  "No bleeding since?" asked Elrond in a soft voice.  "No blood in the ears?"

      Aragorn crouched before him.  "No, my lord.  Only the bruises and his torn hands, and the swelling and …and blindness."

      _These small folk are truly indestructible_, Elrond thought to himself, feeling the back of Pippin's head.  _Such resilience bodes well for their journey,_ _since they seem to insist on falling into trouble.  _A shadow fell over him, interfering with the slanting light from the sun, and Elrond looked up into Gandalf's frightened eyes.  "He sleeps," murmured the Elf-lord by way of reassurance.  "Let us all go inside where we may examine him further."  A wave of his hand reassured those waiting and they stepped back, vastly relieved that the bandages and medicines they carried would not be immediately required.  

      Gandalf placed a hand under Elrond's arm but the Elf-lord rose easily, Pippin's small weight in his arms almost negligible.  Pippin yawned as Elrond rose and his eyelashes fluttered.  He sniffed deeply then his sharp face blossomed into a smile.  "Gandalf!  Gandalf!" he cried, holding out his arms.

       The old wizard reached over and Elrond placed the hobbit in his arms.  Pippin burrowed into the scratchy beard and pressed his face against the rough hair, inhaling deeply.  Then he pulled back and looked up to where he guessed Gandalf's face would be.  "Thank you for my firework, Gandalf," he said clearly.  "I loved it ever so much.  They were all wonderful, but mine was the best!"  With that he wrapped his arms as far as they would go around the wizard and hugged him.

      Gandalf's face was a wonder.  Tears stood in the wizard's eyes for a moment then he mastered himself.  "You are most welcome, Pippin.  I thought you might enjoy having them _given_ to you."  Merry, from almost under Gandalf's feet, could not suppress a giggle at the old wizard's reference to Bilbo's infamous last Birthday Party.  Pippin caught it too; he laughed aloud in delight then yawned again and nestled happily into the warm comfort of the great grey beard.

     "Let us take him to his room," suggested Elrond.  "I have sent for Bilbo; he should meet us there.  Do any of you others need attention … other than a cold soaking and bottles of liniment?"  At the shaking of curly heads, Elrond swept up the stairs with Gandalf behind him.  Legolas and Aragorn broke off their explanations to the Elves crowding about them to follow.  Pippin raised himself up in the wizard's arms, twisting around to assure himself of Merry's nearness by reaching out a hand that Merry caught and kept tight in his own.  All the while Pippin was chattering at Gandalf, so involved in recounting his adventure that the wizard had to tighten his hold to avoid dropping him, eliciting a reproachful squawk. 

       The other hobbits struggled after but Frodo paused at the bottom stair, Pippin's excited voice interspersed by Gandalf's gravel-voiced, "Indeed?" fading as they entered the House.  He turned at the bottom stair and made his way painfully over to the bay mare.  He held up his hands and she lowered her greying head and lipped his fingers.

      "Thank you," whispered the Ring-bearer.  "You and all your kin."  A moment later he felt a slender hand on his shoulder and Granlion repeated his thanks.  Frodo looked up at the tall Elf.  "Is there anything we can do for them, Granlion?  In way of showing our gratitude?"

      "I believe the stable master would be overjoyed to see these ones again, Frodo.  He bred and raised each of them, you know."  He turned to the old mare.  "Lady, would you and yours guest with us for a time?  Winter is coming and the stables are warm and filled with the finest hay and oats and sweet grass."

      Whether the wise old horse understood every word or just the general gist of the invitation, it seemed to the hobbit and Elf that she did understand.  The soft brown eyes looked at her small herd then slowly, she bowed her head regally in acceptance.  Granlion laughed, a clear silvery peal of joy.  "Good!  Allow me to escort you, my lady.  Frodo, can you make it up the stairs by yourself?"

      Frodo smiled.  "I fear I owe Merry an apology for teasing him about being saddle-sore.  Yes, Granlion, I can make it on my own.  When your partner returns, would both of you please come to see me?  Perhaps by then I will have thought of a way to thank you both for saving Pippin's life." 

      One hand on his horse's reins and the other on the old mare's neck, the Elf bowed.  "It was our pleasure, Ring-bearer.  And please, do not think you owe Brendion and myself a debt.  What you have done – and have agreed to do – humbles me.  I was one of the many here in Imladris who petitioned our lord for the honor of accompanying you on your Quest.  As I cannot go with you, I pray you will accept my good wishes instead."

      "Thank you," Frodo whispered.  The Elf smiled at him then turned and led the two horses away.  The mare's small herd followed after, greying heads and tails raised proudly despite their weariness.

* * * * *      

      When Frodo at last neared his younger cousins' quarters, he paused to lean for a moment against the wall outside the room, fighting to control his breath.  He was exhausted, worry and apprehension mercifully dulling the pain of the abraded skin under his breeches.  But that was not what caught his breath and demanded a moment of private thought.  _Perhaps it is not too late to send Pippin home_, he reflected.  _To send both of them home.  Lord Elrond would do it, if I begged him. _ _He didn't_ _want Pippin to go in the first place._  But then what?  Merry and Pippin's families would have to mount a guard over the lads to prevent them from trying to follow after the Fellowship.  Would they ever forgive him if he sent them home?   Would he forgive himself?

     _No_, he thought.  _No, it's too late._  _Oh, Elbereth, keep them safe_.  He pulled himself upright, ignoring the silent shriek of abused muscles.  Opening the door, he discovered Pippin sitting up in bed with Merry propped up against the headboard, holding him still (or at least in one place) with an arm across Pippin's chest.  Lord Elrond stood at his bedside, moving a lighted candle back and forth in front of the tweenager's eyes.  "No, Pippin," the Elf-lord was saying patiently, "do not turn your face towards the heat.  Keep your head still and try to focus on the candle flame.  Do you see light?"

     Aragorn and Legolas were absent but Gandalf sat at Pippin's head, hands clasped around his staff, watching intently.  Bilbo sat in one of the hobbit-sized chairs and seeing the door open, motioned Frodo inside.  His old face wrinkled into a grin as Frodo complied, feet turned outward as far as possible.  "You too, lad?  Sam's just having a wash and applying some ointment Elrond gave him.  You'd best be next."

      Frodo leaned over and gave his uncle a quick kiss on the forehead.  "Has Elrond said anything about Pippin yet?"

     Bilbo caught Frodo's shoulder and pulled him in for a hug.  "Welcome home, my boy," he murmured into Frodo's ear.  Then more loudly, "No, not yet.  And our young cousin isn't cooperating very well, either.  Seems more interested in his stomach than anything else.  As usual."

     Pippin's head turned in their direction, drawing an exasperated sigh from Lord Elrond.  "I haven't eaten since _yesterday_," he almost wailed.  "Hullo, Frodo.  Did you bring anything to eat?"

     "I just got here, you silly Took," replied his cousin.  "And would you stop making things difficult for Lord Elrond?  Do what he tells you."

     Pippin hunched down against Merry, a grumpy expression on his sharp face.  "I'm hungry," he complained.  "And everyone tells me what to do.  I …  _Food!"_

        "Nothing wrong with his nose," observed Aragorn wryly as Sam hurried through the door behind him and held it open.  The Ranger's hands were clamped around a large tray, dishes clattering with his movement.  "If there is one thing I have learned about hobbits, it is that you had best feed them before expecting any sort of cooperation or intelligent conversation."

      "Not that you'll get either of those from Pippin," muttered Merry under his breath, followed by _"Ow!"_ as Pippin's hearing proved as good as his sense of smell.

       Merry rubbed his tender stomach and helped himself from the tray as his cousins and Sam devoured their meal.  Bilbo watched them all benevolently, pressing a delicacy on one or another whenever they slowed.  When Pippin finished, he sat back with a sigh and smiled.  Then he twisted around and punched Merry hard in one arm.

      _"Ow!"_ Merry yelped.  "What did you do that for?"  Frodo and Sam stopped chewing and stared at them blankly.

       "That was because you tried to throw yourself in the river after me, Merry," Pippin said.  

      Merry stared at him in astonishment.  "How did you know that?"

      "I just knew," Pippin replied.  In a softer voice he added, "It's the same thing I would have done if you had fallen in, you ridiculous Brandybuck."

      Merry laughed shakily and wiped his eyes.  "Oh, Pip," he said softly.  "I am so proud of you for saving Legolas.  You were so brave …but please, please dear heart, take more care.  I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you.  I simply couldn't."  In a rush of motion Pippin was in his arms, hugging him tightly.  Merry looked up to see tears in Frodo's eyes, and a suspicious wetness in Sam's.  He kissed the top of Pippin's head.  "Surely you've a bit more room, Pip.  Have another few bites."  He guided Pippin's hand back to his fork and speared another sausage.

        While the famished hobbits ate (Merry and Frodo sitting with their chafed legs carefully apart), Elrond drew Aragorn and Gandalf off to the side.  Bilbo's sharp brown eyes followed them but he stayed with others, hearing their accounts of the walking party.  "And then," Pippin was saying, waving a buttered roll about dangerously, "I stroked for the side of the river, because you taught me that, Merry – that the water moves more slowly on the sides –" He could not see Merry's eyes fill with tears again but Frodo did and leaned forward to press his shoulder.

      "What is it, Elrond?" asked Gandalf, his rough voice no louder than a whisper.  Silent beside the wizard, Aragorn wondered if a casual observer could discern just how much Gandalf cared for that impertinent youngster.  To anyone who knew the Istari as well as he did, Gandalf's lined face proclaimed his trepidation. 

      "I believe Estel has the right of it; a pressing of the delicate nerves inside the eye due to swelling from the injury.  I can detect no damage to the eyes themselves.  If we can keep him quiet –" a lift of the high brows indicated doubt of that "- then he should begin to recover his sight in a day or two as the swelling decreases."

     Pippin broke off when a knock sounded at the door.  Aragorn went to it quickly, before Sam could put down his plate and struggle to his feet.  Low voices wove around the Ranger's, then, "Boromir!" crowed Pippin happily.  "Gimli!  Legolas!" 

       "Or," said Elrond, "perhaps we can limit the number of people who wish to see him for a few days –" Aragorn swung the door wider to admit Granlion, with Ralolith and Lucilena in anxious tow, and behind them, Elrond's sons and his daughter looked in with worried expressions.  "Or," the Elf-lord continued in resignation, as more people crowded behind his children, "we can just announce a party and hope he will eventually wear himself out."

* * * * *

        "I had not realized that the hobbits had made quite so many friends," remarked Elrond some hours later.  Pippin was sleeping at last, sharing the bed with Merry.  Frodo and Sam had refused to leave the room and commandeered the empty one.  All were soundly asleep, their hurts washed and treated, lost in utter exhaustion.

       The Elf-lord and the wizard sat back at their ease, savoring the silence.  Bilbo had toddled off to his room some time ago, grinning at what he called, "the excesses of youth."  Gandalf puffed quietly at his pipe, watching as the blue smoke curled into the mid-morning air.  "They are a gregarious folk, hobbits.  Much interwoven in their families and relationships," the wizard mused.  

      "Seeing Bilbo with them has made me admire my old friend all the more," the Elf-lord returned.  "He is quite different around them – more light-hearted and teasing.  The love between them all is an amazing thing.  I never quite appreciated what it must have taken for Bilbo to leave his kin and kind and all that he knew to seek solitude here.  I think he will miss them very much when they leave."  Elrond paused, dark eyes idly watching the smoke drift away.  "I think that perhaps I will miss them very much, also."

      "Is all in readiness?" asked Gandalf.

     "Yes.  The Fellowship must be ready to depart in a week's time.  We will let them rest and young Pippin recover for two or three days, then follow your suggestion.  When that is over, it will be time for you to set out."

      "Don't tell them yet," begged the wizard.

      Elrond looked at his old friend in surprise.  "But they know it must be soon.  Should not they have more time to ready themselves?"

     Gandalf shook his grey head.  "No.  Frodo will worry himself into a state, you see.  Sam will worry that Frodo worries.  Merry and Pippin will be unhappy because Frodo and Sam are worried.  No," he withdrew the pipe and pursed his lips, forming a great smoke-ring, "it is better to let them live in the present, as hobbits do.  There will be enough time for worry and fear once we are on our way."

       After a moment, the Elf-lord nodded, his expression somber.  "I believe you have the right of it."  His gaze traveled to the four small sleeping forms.  "Come, old friend.  Let us leave them to their rest."  Silently Gandalf and Elrond rose, and moved past the sleeping hobbits.  

      Gandalf hesitated as he passed Frodo, and laid a gentle hand on the dark head.  Frodo sighed at the affectionate touch but did not wake.  "Sleep well, dear friend," Gandalf whispered and together the wizard and the Elf-lord passed from the sun-lit room.

* TBC *


	31. A Surprise

(Author's Note:  My deepest apologies for the lack of updates over the last couple of weeks.  I made the mistake of installing a firewall on my laptop, which trashed all Internet functions.  Two weeks and $170 in repairs later, and many new gray hairs, the firewall was uninstalled.  _Anyway…_  Shirebound, thanks for the support during a difficult time.  Firnsarnien, I'll have to write you a Leggy fic.  That would be challenge.  Mish, hobbit-hugs joyfully accepted.  Thank you!  Sam, you put your finger on the joy of fanfic – we can draw our own interpretations of our beloved characters.  Robin Gurl – now, how did I know you would empathize with Pippin?! J  Smalldiver, what torture do I have planned _next_?  How could you possibly think that? [cough]  Bookworm2000, that addition was Marigold's idea, and you are right – she knows exactly what a scene needs.  Coriandra, yes, I fear the end is coming.  But not quite yet…  Aratlithiel1, this is way late, but I'm glad you're better.  Laura, I loved your budgie story.  One of mine hates water but likes to bathe in grape kool-aid.  Endymion2, I often skip the ending of _RotK_, too.  The sorrow is too painful.  QTPie-2488, I'm glad you enjoyed the comfort scene … we all could use more of that.  Baylor, your "Tea and Small Talk" forever influenced my view of Pippin and Gandalf's relationship.  *Happy sniffles**.***  Arabella thorne, that chapter was a joy to write – after all the angst, I needed it, too.  Katakanadian, I can only give you my opinion, but I always thought that once Bilbo gave up the Ring, he started to deteriorate rapidly.  He must have felt the years compounding, all at once.  Kimby, I'm sure you're right.  Bilbo's great heart and courage, trapped in that failing body.  Old age at its worst.  Hello, Delas!  You are right; Gimli is undervalued.  Look up Elwen's "A Sick Frodo Fic?" –a delightful Gimli/Frodo story.  My thanks to Marigold for her invaluable beta-ing and for her reassurances, encouragement and hand-holding; services above and beyond the call of duty.)  

Chapter 31: A Surprise

      "No," said Pippin fretfully, the following morning.  "I can't tell."  He kicked at the blankets, catapulting several small pieces of wood into the air before they landed in disarray on his bed.  His hands crept up to his eyes.

      "Stop pulling at your bandage, Pippin," ordered Merry from somewhere in the room.  "You can take it off when Lord Elrond says you can take it off and not one minute before."  Pippin sighed deeply and folded his arms in front of him to lessen the temptation of pulling on the linen.

     "It is all right, Pippin," said Legolas gently, gathering up the pieces of bark strewn about the coverlet.  The Elf had been playing a game with the blindfolded tweenager, handing him various items and seeing if Pippin could identify them.  Elrond had been concerned that the torn and battered fingers might result in diminished sensation in Pippin's fingertips, but already the fingernails were mending and sensitivity was returning to his nimble, quick hands.  The other hobbits had laughed at the game until Legolas made them close their eyes and try.  To Pippin's glee, his cousins and Sam had been unable to identify the bit of abandoned wasps' nest, the dried broad bean pods, and the interlocking   metallic puzzle pieces that Gimli had designed for the younger hobbits during their bout with head colds.  Now the game had graduated to more difficult items, and the tweenager's rather short attention span had wavered.  "I think perhaps only an Elf would care about telling different types of trees apart by touch," Legolas continued.  "When did Lord Elrond say you may remove the blindfold?"

      "He said Pip may take it off for very short intervals beginning later this afternoon," replied Merry before Pippin could respond, "but it is to stay on at least until tomorrow.  Longer, if Pip strains his eyes."  This earned him an indignant grumble from Pippin and a restless bounce of the bedsprings.  "And don't you mutter at me under your breath, Peregrin Took."  Legolas laughed softly and Pippin's bandaged head swiveled at him resentfully.

      The Elf had been much in evidence for the two days that Pippin had been confined to bed, talking with him, singing to him, telling him stories.  Pippin had evidently decided that Legolas was his own personal provider of entertainment and relentlessly demanded tales and songs in such numbers that the Elf's long memory was actually strained.  In desperation, Legolas had appealed to the other members of the Fellowship and now all of them took turns at amusing the bedridden young hobbit.  The youngster was, Legolas reflected, quite probably the only halfling in their short history who had heard ancient Elvish ballads, Dwarvish sagas, Gondorian tales, Númorean lays and every story on every subject of every race that the old wizard could come up with.  In the slightly less than two months that the hobbits had dwelt in Imladris, the halfling-child had been able to coax more tales out of its various inhabitants than had old Master Bilbo in his seventeen years of scholarly research.

     There were few, Legolas reflected, that could resist this young one's doleful sighs or sad face.   Pippin took shameless advantage of having so many so willing to entertain him, his pointed ears quivering as he soaked up every word and melody.  The Elf noticed that as many hobbits as possible, if they were not otherwise occupied, were always present when a tale or song was in the offing.  In a very short amount of time Pippin had woven them all about his little finger, until he had only to squeak and Legolas or Boromir or his cousins and, to the surprise of many, Gandalf, would rush to obtain him the least little thing he desired.

      When Pippin wanted a song, Arwen herself happily obliged him.  Many passing by the open door smiled to see the Evenstar seated next to the little halfling's bed, his hand cradled in hers, bandaged head turned adoringly towards her sweet voice.  When Bilbo heard that the Evenstar was singing for his youngest cousin, the old hobbit showed up, red-faced and puffing, paper and quills and colored chalks spilling from his eager hands.  It was difficult to tell who was the most pleased; Pippin with the songs and the attention she paid to him, Arwen for her appreciative audience and the opportunity to fulfill a long-delayed wish of Bilbo's, or Bilbo for finally achieving his heart's desire.  

       When their sister's voice gave out, Elladan and Elrohir volunteered to take a turn and a new round of tales and poems and lays began.  A delighted Bilbo was kept busy, scribbling frantically.  The hobbits were fascinated; the twins' blended voices opened new vistas of wonder for them.  Glorfindel visited often, as did many of their elven friends.  Pippin was kept occupied and amused, and if he became bored with resting in his room, it was not difficult to find a pair of strong arms to carry him about.  Pippin basked in the attention like a sunflower responding to the light, his own sweet and affectionate nature making those who cared for him feel fortunate and privileged. 

      Still, when the blindfold was put away three days later, Sam had had enough.  "Master Pippin," he said severely, after the young hobbit had sent his cousins off on yet another errand to obtain him sweets from the kitchens, "You've got to stop taking advantage o' your cousins.  And everybody else.  You can see fine now - no need to make them all dance like puppets for you."

      The tweenager was perhaps understandably reluctant to let go of being waited on hand and foot.  Pippin stuck out his lower lip, a tactic he had found most effective with his besotted caregivers.  The ploy would have been more effective had he been able to conceal his lurking smile.  "But Sam," he wheedled, holding up his bandage wrapped hands, "I can't pick anything up, you know.  And –"

      "And nothing.  There's nowt wrong with your legs, nor your tongue, Master Pippin.  If you've a fancy for one o' them pretty cream-puff swans or some other such thing, you can ask the cook yourself instead of sending Mr. Frodo or Mr. Merry to beg for you."  Sam folded his arms firmly and stared levelly at the young hobbit.

      Finding the pout ineffective, Pippin tried tearing up.  Sam regarded him stoically, refusing to let the youngster see how very nearly successful those brimming eyes were.  "Oh, all _right_!" the young hobbit giggled after some moments.  He leaned back against the bedpost and wrapped his arms around his legs, tucking his sharp chin on his knees.  "I won't make them fetch and carry for me, or ask people to tell me tales," he conceded regretfully.  Pippin sighed in exaggerated disappointment.  "Though Boromir never did tell me his 'unsuitable stories,' you know, and he said he would," he added mournfully, his eyes sparkling wickedly.  

      "That's all we need," growled Sam to himself, unaware that Pippin was shaking with mirth.  "What Mr. Frodo would say to _that_ I don't care to think.  Mr. Merry, neither."  He ground his teeth together.  "Master Pippin, you are _not_ 'ta-" 

     Pippin had been watching Sam covertly, delighted with his mischief.  "Sam, you know I wouldn't do anything to upset Frodo."  Sam grimaced. "Well, not much, anyway.  I won't ask Boromir for those stories … yet," he added in a whisper, well aware that Sam could hear him.  When Sam looked like he was going to press the point, Pippin grinned deprecatingly and waved his hands in surrender.  "I won't ask for any more stories, Sam.  Truly.  Though it was fun while it lasted."  __

     "Aye, and it's over now," Sam reminded him.  

     "All right, all right…"  Further discourse was prevented by the triumphant return of Frodo and Merry, staggering under the weight of a tray laden with sugared pastries and savories and boiled sweets made from fruit, gifts from the head cook and kitchen staff.  

* * * * *

      "Any luck?" asked Merry.

      "No," replied Frodo shortly.  Then seeing his fellow hobbits' disappointed faces, he relented and elaborated, "But _something_ is going on.  I know that twinkle in Gandalf's eye.  And Bilbo is about fit to burst."

     "Can't you get him to talk?" asked Pippin.  "Ask Gimli to give you more of that brown stuff from his flask.  Cousin Bilbo was quite the chatterbox after a few shots of _that_, as I recall."

      Frodo scowled at him and Pippin ducked his head and hid a smile.  The hobbits were gathered in Frodo's room, draped over various chairs and divans with Pippin stretched out on the great bed, all of them relaxed and recuperating from a most satisfying tea.  The late afternoon sun streamed in the balcony windows, and Frodo reflected that right now, at this moment, he was as happy and as comfortable as he had ever been.

      In the days that had passed since the return of the walking party, all four of the hobbits had made a commendable effort to put back the weight lost in walking and worry.  They usually requested trays for breakfast and second breakfast, then Frodo and Sam would join Bilbo in his room for elevenses and luncheon while Merry and Pippin were out exploring Rivendell,turning up promptly to join them at the first chime of the dinner bell.Bilbo would read parts of his book to them or take notes of their adventures, but more often they simply talked and smoked, enjoying each other's company in quiet contentment.   Tea might be in Frodo's room or Bilbo's or the Great Hall, depending on naps and whether the hobbits thought they would be needing seconds and thirds of what was being prepared.  Dinner was served in the Great Hall and afterwards they would sit in the Hall of Fire and listen to many old tales and songs.  When they retired to their rooms after, there was always a platter or two of dainties and a bottle of wine set out for them should they wish to fill up the corners before going to bed.  It was altogether a comfortable routine, and the hobbits reveled in it, well aware that their carefree time in Rivendell was drawing to a close.

       Replete for the moment, Pippin lolled languidly amongst the pillows, toying with his fairy-stone.  He had forgotten about the little stone until boredom had prompted him to dig it out of his breeches, and he was idly amusing himself by peering through the little hole at his cousins and Sam.  Frodo was sitting in a chair in the sunlight near the balcony, engaged in a friendly argument with Merry, and if that shining light that Pippin had seen earlier about his cousin was present, he could not differentiate it from the sun's glow_.  _

     A soft knock at the door and Aragorn admitted himself before Sam could answer it.  Answering the chorus of "hullo's", the Ranger settled himself comfortably on a divan.  "Elrond wishes you to join him in his quarters this evening after the Hall of Fire," the Ranger said.  "Gandalf and Bilbo and I will be there.  May I tell my lord that you will come?"

      Frodo glanced at the others in surprise, then answered for all of them.  "We would be delighted, of course.  May I ask why Lord Elrond is honoring us with this invitation?"

     "Oh, no reason," said the Man so nonchalantly that the hobbits were immediately suspicious.  

     While his elders talked, Pippin rolled idly over onto his stomach and held the fairy-stone up to his eye again, looking at the Ranger.  Then he stiffened into complete immobility.  Unused to stillness from Pippin for any length of time, Merry glanced over at him.  Pippin sat up cross-legged on the bed, looking from the stone to Aragorn in confusion.

     Merry held out his hand in silent demand and Pippin leaned sideways and passed him the stone.  Merry took it with a quirked eyebrow.  Pippin mimed putting it to his eye, and pointed at Aragorn.  Humoring his cousin, Merry obeyed.  So?  There sat Aragorn, talking with Frodo.  Then suddenly as the Man threw back his head and laughed, sunlight winked on the tips of the golden crown that adorned his noble head.  He was garbed not in wool and leather but the finest silks and velvets, and picked out in silk thread on his tunic was a White Tree inset with jewels, and splendid and regal was his bearing and mien.  

     Merry lowered the fairy-stone slowly, struggling to understand what he had seen.  Pippin was looking at him with wide eyes, and Merry nodded to show that he had indeed witnessed the vision.  Pippin sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his fists, reassured that his recent injury was not causing him hallucinations.

     "Merry?"  Both young hobbits jerked guiltily and attended to their older cousin.  "I _said_," Frodo repeated pointedly, "that…"  He trailed off, dark brows quirking as he noted their sudden respectful attention.  Sitting silent beside him, Sam leaned forward, those sharp grey eyes narrowing with suspicion.  _"_ What are you two so involved in?"

      "Nothing, Cousin Frodo," both young hobbits chorused with identical guileless expressions.  Merry discovered that he was hiding the fairy-stone behind him and flushed.  Frodo's brows rose then drew together.  He frowned and his bright blue gaze focused on Merry intently.  Aragorn watched this byplay with amusement, then chose to distract Frodo.

      "I will inform my lord of your acceptance," said the Ranger, rising.  Frodo hurriedly slid off the chair to escort their guest to the door, his face tightening in a grimace.  Aragorn watched him, a smile lingering in his eyes.  "Still a bit stiff, I see."

     "Only a little, Aragorn," Frodo replied with an embarrassed grin.  "That ointment of Lord Elrond's works wonders.  Would you please thank Lord Elrond for the invitation, and tell him that we are looking forward to it?"  Aragorn smiled at them all again, his stern face softening, and departed.

      "I wish there were some way 'ta thank Lord Elrond for his hospitality," murmured Sam wistfully.  "He's done so much for us."

     Merry and Pippin looked at each other in silent accord.  Pippin arched his eyebrows and tilted his head, and Merry nodded, one side of his mouth turning up.  "Wait here," said Merry and disappeared, managing to unobtrusively drop the stone into his cousin's waiting hand as he passed the bed_._  Pippin stretched out again, kicking his heels while they waited.  Merry returned after a few minutes and with a grand gesture, deposited a ragged bundle of cloth in Frodo's lap.

     "You want to give Lord Elrond … a pair of Pippin's worn-out and rather dirty breeches?"

      "Frodo," said Merry in exasperation, and unwrapped the dragon's tooth.

* * * * *

       The hobbits took special care that afternoon in preparing for their evening with their host.  Upon awakening from their naps, Frodo had declared that they would visit the baths instead of making use of the copper tubs.  The three cousins were relaxing in the steamy warmth of the deep water, standing on the seats, while Sam clung white-knuckled to the side and tried to ignore the fact that water was all about him.

      "Look, Sam," Pippin caroled as he paddled by.  "If I'm not afraid of a little water, you shouldn't be.  It's not even going anywhere."   The youngster took a deep breath and ducked his head under the water, sending up a small fountain of soapy waves.  Sam gulped and clung all the tighter to the slippery wall.

      The hobbits were not impatient to meet Lord Elrond after the Hall of Fire; the time spent in that magical place was too special to wish to hurry by.  It had become their custom to lounge on cushions set for them near the great fire, where they listened to the tales and songs with their hands folded under their chins, eyes dreamy and unfocused.  It was here that they had first heard in full the lay of Beren and Lúthien that Aragorn had told them in abbreviated form on the summit of Weathertop, and other songs and tales beyond count.  Sam stored as many of these in his memory as he could, reciting them to himself, safeguarding them in his heart.  

      Elves customarily stayed in the Hall long after the hobbits had departed for bed, but on this eve Elrond left after only a few hours, sending word for the hobbits to join him in his rooms a short time later.  Slightly apprehensive ("Pippin, are you _certain_ you didn't break something recently?  Merry, is there _anything_ I should know?"), Frodo knocked on the door and to his surprise, was admitted by Gandalf.

       The old wizard swung the door wide and stepped back, motioning the four hobbits into the room.  Frodo looked up into Gandalf's face for a clue as he led the way but Gandalf just waggled his bristling eyebrows at them, deep eyes sparkling.  In they came … and stopped dead in wide-eyed wonder.

      In the center of Elrond's spacious chambers arose a great living fir tree, set into an enormous half-barrel of earth, bedecked with garlands of bright paper and foil, tiny twinkling candles, miniature crackers, and small glittering ornaments and crowned with a great star of blown glass into which a candle had been set, so that the star cast its golden glow throughout the room.  Boughs of holly and green ivy adorned the mantel and sills of the windows, and mistletoe hung from the high ceiling.  Red satin and velvet ribbons were tied on them, draped across the great mantle and hung in other places.  In the great stone fireplace a Yule log burned and the scents of mulled wine and cider and cinnamon filled the air.  Placed throughout the room were small tables bearing crackers and gifts, goblets and plates and trays piled high with delicacies and sweet things, and prominently displayed was an enormous cake stuffed with fruit and frosted with sugar icing. On yet another table stood a Yule pudding nearly large enough to feed the entire Great Smials. The hobbits halted in amazement and stared about them, wordless_.  _

      "Oh," laughed the wizard.  "That _hobbits_ are struck dumb is worth any amount of work!"  Gandalf knelt and placed his hands on Frodo's shoulders, looking into his eyes and the eyes of the others.  "Happy Yule, my friends."

      "Oh, Gandalf," murmured Frodo, high color rising in his pale face.  "You … you did all this for us?"

     "I had help from Bilbo and Aragorn and Elrond," said the old wizard softly.  "And many other people besides.  Now, come.  Let us feast and drink and enjoy ourselves."

       Bilbo moved from where he had been standing with Elrond, joy shining from his wrinkled old face.  He reached up to pull Frodo's head down and kissed his nephew's forehead, repeating the gesture slowly with each of the others.  "I had almost forgotten Yule, my lads.  Elves don't celebrate it, you know.  But when Elrond asked what he could do to see you all off, I remembered that were you back in the Shire, you'd be holding Yule now."  The old hobbit turned stiffly to face the magnificent tree and they heard tears in his soft voice.  He cleared his throat then continued, "Elrond asked me about the star on top of the tree, and I told him it represents the star of Eärendil.  He liked that, though I think the idea rather startled him.  Odd to think of one's father being remembered by another race in such a way, I suppose..."  Bilbo trailed off and stood quietly for a few moments, an odd combination of wistfulness and sadness in his expression.  "It's been a long time…  Did I remember everything?"

      "Everything," breathed Sam, his eyes round with wonder.  "It's beautiful, sir."

      Merry dragged his eyes from the festive splendor about him and focused on Elrond.  "See us off, my lord?"

      A shadow of sorrow crossed the Elf-lord's ageless eyes.  "Yes, Meriadoc.  In a few days, you must leave Imladris."

* TBC *


	32. The Quest Begins

(Author's Note:  I am honored to announce that "Recovery/Renewal in Rivendell" has been nominated for West of the Moon's Golden Mushroom award, in the "Lost in Rivendell" category and also for the "Most Creative Use of a Vegetable" category! Lindelea, thank you.  I'm grateful you enjoyed [and stayed with] this entire epic.  Shirebound, as one of those who moans and complains whenever you complete a story … good!  If you re-open "Avalanche," I'll continue "Renewal."  Firnsarnien, I have started two Leggy stories.  Would you prefer humor or angst?  QTPie-2488, I don't remember what all has happened, either. That must mean it is time to let them go.   Mish, the star of Eärendil was Marigold's idea.  Didn't it fit in just perfectly?  LilyBaggins, I tried for a wholly sweet and fuzzy chapter.  But that last line just snuck in there.  Sam, your comment about the hobbits' families back in the Shire really struck me.  Very sobering.  Aratlithiel1, "sniff" is how I feel, too.  But it's time…  Bookworm2000, I'm so sorry to disappoint you but the story of Elrond's use of the dragon's tooth will have to wait for another time.  Gentle Hobbit and Kit5, I had in mind an Edwardian Christmas, such as Tolkien would have enjoyed.  I researched British Yule traditions on the Internet – it was fascinating and I now have a plum pudding recipe to try.  Smalldiver, your description of "ickle Pippin" tickles me every time I see it.  Helga, thank you.  Yes, sweetness and light, and then _wham!_  [Budgielover sneaks off, chuckling evilly.]  Lady Eleclya, I have a feeling that 'normal' Pippin won't last long.  Just a feeling, mind you.  Baylor, since I was so late for the Halloween challenge, I was determined to be on time for Yule.  

Friends, thank you so much for staying with this story for an astonishing 62 chapters.  As "Recovery/Renewal in Rivendell" concludes, please be on the lookout for "Riding the Nightmare," the first chapter to be published soon.  The Monty Python phrase "And now for something completely different" comes to mind in describing "Nightmare."  My most heartfelt thanks to Marigold, without whom this story would not have been nearly as memorable [and lucid].)                                       

Chapter 32:  The Quest Begins 

       Frodo nodded, and his eyes closed for a moment.  Gandalf looked at Elrond over his head in concern.  Aragorn took a half step forward, raising his hand to rest it upon the hobbit's shoulder.  The other hobbits were still, frozen with conflicting emotions.  Fear was foremost.  Apprehension.  But also there was relief, for at last the uncertain future that had hung so over their heads was come, and could finally be faced and dealt with.  

       "Frodo?" asked Gandalf softly.

       After several long moments, the Ring-bearer opened his eyes.  They were clear and brilliant, their astonishing blue almost the only color in the hobbit's face.  "It is time," Frodo said softly, almost to himself.  "I am ready."

       He raised his head and faced Elrond.  "Thank you, my lord," Frodo said in a clear and ringing voice.  "For saving my life, and for all that you have done for us.  Hobbits exchange gifts at Yule, and with your permission, we would like to present you with this."

       On cue, Samwise stepped forward and held up a gaily-wrapped package to Elrond, presenting it to the Elf-lord with a bow.  Elrond took the long, slender package with a raised eyebrow and a bemused expression.  He glanced at Gandalf, who shrugged, and Aragorn, who was suppressing a grin.     "Thank you," he said to the hobbits, and unwrapped it.   

       As the bright paper fell away, Elrond inhaled sharply.  The blood drained from his face as his dark eyes widened.  The watching hobbits were treated to a sight rarely seen in this latter age of the world – a totally flabbergasted Elrond.  The Elf-lord stared at the dragon's tooth in disbelief, then slowly extended a long finger and ran his fingertip along its dagger-like length, watching the play of pearlized light as it danced over the tooth.  

       "That," whispered the tweenager, "is _worth _falling in the water and everything else!"  Merry squeezed his cousin's arm.

       Elrond stared at the priceless thing in his hands, and for the first time in many, many long years, he could find no words in the depthless sea of his mind.  Gandalf, too, was equally struck, but after choking a moment, the wizard found his voice.  "Where – Where did you get _that_?"

       Pippin swelled visibly and took a deep breath, ready to launch into an involved tale, but Aragorn put his hand on his shoulder.  "We returned with it from our walking party, and it was the cause of much grief.  We nearly lost something far more valuable to obtain it."  Pippin looked up into the Man's face and smiled.

       "I … I am overwhelmed," Elrond said at last, still staring at the dragon's tooth.  The many candles in the room lent it a fantastical air, reflecting colors from its shining surface like lamp oil poured into water.  "It quite puts the poor gifts I have for you to shame."

       "Presents?" said Pippin eagerly, while Merry tried to repeat the word around a slice of gingerbread.  "You have presents for us?"

       "Over there."  Elrond smiled, and his deep eyes were lit with amusement.  "Under the tree."

        The hobbits had completely overlooked the four gaily-wrapped boxes, so enthralled had they been with all the garlands of ribbon-wrapped holly and decorations and other delights.  With a whoop, Pippin dashed under the tree and to his and all the others' pleasure, found that each package bore an attached tag with a name written upon it.  Pippin rooted around them in great excitement, head down and posterior bobbing among the packages.   "This one's yours, Sam!" Pippin crowed, and with a great "ummph!" the youngster dragged the largest and heaviest box out from under the tree and hobbit-handled it into position before the gardener, waiting eagerly for him to open it.

       Sam placed a reverent hand on the decorated paper.  "It's too pretty 'ta undo," he murmured, to the laughter of the others.  Sam flushed, then slowly and deliberately unwrapped the paper and eased it off, folding it carefully before prying up the lid.  _"Oh,"_ he said softly.  

      Unable to restrain his curiosity a moment longer, Frodo leaned over him and reached into the box, withdrawing a cooking pot.  Inside was a whole set of hobbit-sized cookware, including a kettle, as light and as sturdy and as beautiful as the Elves could craft.  Sam sat down right there on the floor with one arm around the kettle and took out each piece to examine it, marveling over its make and design.  When the box was emptied, Sam looked at the treasures around him and burst into happy tears.

     "Buck up, Samwise," laughed Bilbo.  But Frodo knelt beside him for a moment and embraced him.

     "Thank you, my lord," Sam whispered, hugging the kettle to him.

      Elrond smiled.  "Estel suggested your gift, Master Samwise.  It seems my son much regretted that he required you to cast away the set which you carried before, however pressing the need."  Aragorn rolled his eyes and grinned when Sam looked at him with such gratitude.  They both laughed when Elrond continued, "And, from what I have heard of your cooking ability, I believe Estel hopes that you will make proper use of it."

       "Aye, sir," Sam whispered happily, "that I will."  

       Pippin could contain himself no longer.  Frodo laughed, eyes sparkling, as the youngest hobbit located his box among those remaining and examined it carefully.  Merry leaned against his cousin, grinning crookedly as they watched Pippin's inspection, recalling many Yule's spent watching their youngest cousin shake, sniff, rattle and feel every gift (intended for Pippin or not) under the tree.  The box was very light and flat, bedecked with ribbons.  Pippin rattled it carefully and laid an ear against the box but it remained uninformative.  Patience exhausted, he ripped off the beautiful paper and pushed it to the side.  He tore off the top and his whole face lit like the sun rising in the morn.  With unaccustomed carefulness, he reached into the box and lifted out a single piece of white paper.  "Oh," he sighed softly, staring at it rapturously.

        "Pippin, what is it?" asked Frodo.  Pippin's gaze remained fixed on the paper, a fatuous smile spreading slowly across his sharp features.  "Pippin?  Pippin-lad?"

       "Pippin!" In exasperation, Merry reached over and pinched him.  Pippin jerked and looked at him dazedly.  Then slowly he turned the paper around so that all could see it.  It was a group portrait, done in charcoals and tinted with pastel chalks.  Elrond sat majestically in his great chair with Elladan and Elrohir lounging at his sides.  Seated at her father's feet was Arwen, her flawless face turned directly towards the artist.  Bilbo, Merry realized.  Bilbo, drawing the twins and their sister as they kept Pippin amused during his convalescence.  Elrond must have sat for his likeness separately.  Pippin turned the paper back around, joy and disbelief mingling on his face as he stared at it. 

       Merry laughed – they could not have chosen anything that would please his little cousin more.  Frodo nudged him and glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.  "Now we'll be treated to even more long discourses on the Lady Evenstar's beauty, Merry.  Aragorn might have something to say about that."

       Pippin blushed abruptly and forced his gaze away from the portrait.   With visible effort, he refocused on them.  "All right, all right.  What did you get, Merry?"  But he did not set down the drawing.

       Merry grinned and left off his teasing, retrieving his own box since Pippin's eyes had returned to the portrait.  His own box was very light and as flat as Pippin's, and he opened it eagerly but with a bit more decorum than Pippin had shown.  Butter-soft hide, folded into a compact bundle met his fingers.  A jerkin?  A new rucksack?  Carefully he lifted the hide from the box and shook it out.  The other hobbits gasped.  Merry looked down in amazement as Middle-earth unfurled beneath his fingers.  It was a map, cut of the softest, sturdiest deer-hide, upon which was detailed in myriad colors all that was known of the world.  Each mountain range, each river, each abode of Men and Elves and Dwarves and Hobbits, was marked in a crisp, clear hand.  Tears gathering in his eyes, Merry hugged the precious thing to him, and whispered, "Thank you.  Thank you, my lord."

       "Thank your Cousin Bilbo, rather," replied the Elf-lord softly.  "The map was his idea and of his making.  I only supplied the materials and the resources."

       Truly overwhelmed, Merry folded his treasure carefully and returned it to its box, stroking the hide as one might a cherished pet.  "Thank you, Bilbo," he whispered, then went to the old hobbit and kissed him.  Pippin followed suit, nearly strangling his elderly cousin with a hug.

       Frodo was last for he had chosen to wait, preferring to watch the joy on his dear friends' faces as they opened their presents first.  His box was almost as heavy as Sam's, though much flatter.  The others crowded around him curiously.  But instead of unwrapping it, Frodo merely knelt and stroked the box with his hand, his gaze unfocused and remote.  Pippin nudged him impatiently and he seemed to leave off his wool-gathering.  "Let us see what this is, shall we?"  Frodo opened it carefully, setting aside the gaily-colored wrapping paper.  Sam and Merry and Pippin watched breathless as their friend's face paled.  With a gasp, Frodo reached both hands into the box with and withdrew from it a book.

       A thick book, wide and heavy, with fine vellum pages.  Frodo ran his hand reverently over the gold-chased title and caressed the fine leather binding.   "It's yours, Bilbo.  It's your book," he whispered in awe."

       "That it is, my lad.  Now it is yours.  Waiting for your part of the tale."  The old hobbit looked both happy and sad at that moment, brown eyes sparkling with tears.  "The rest of the pages are blank, for your story, and for Merry's and Pippin's and Sam's."

       Frodo opened the book and turned the pages reverently.  When he came to Bilbo's map of the Shire, he paused and spent some time looking at it.  Then his respectful hands found the center of the book, and he saw that the remaining pages were still uncut, pristine and unmarked.  He traced a fingertip along the gilt on the side of a page, stroked it across the absorbent surface.  "I can't take it with me," he murmured regretfully. 

       "But it will be here waiting for you to come back," said Bilbo softly.  "As will I."  

* * * * *

       Other gifts Elrond gave to them also, thick warm clothes and jackets and cloaks lined with fur, dried meats and preserved foods, those that would last upon the trail, and many small gifts that would help to ease their way on the journey they were about to undertake.  There were crackers, too, made by Gandalf, that exploded with a bang and bright flash of light when the hobbits pulled them apart.  Inside they were filled with sweets and almonds rolled in sugar and ridiculous paper hats and cunning favors.  The hobbits laughed in delight, treasuring each moment. And that evening lasted far into the night, filled with many songs and feasting and merry-making, and it lived in the hobbits' minds as a happy time to remember in all the dark places that were to come.

* * * * *

       At long last, the Fellowship was ready to depart.  Farewells had been said, the last gifts given, and the Ring-bearer and his Company stood in the courtyard of Imladris in the failing light of day and huddled in their cloaks against the raking fingers of the East Wind.  Sam was rubbing the pack-pony's nose while Merry and Pippin checked that all of the bundles containing their spare clothes and food and supplies were evenly distributed amongst Bill's panniers and safely lashed down.  Bill shifted as the young hobbits adjusted his load, and Sam murmured, "Easy, Bill.  Easy there, my lad." 

       "Pippin," Merry whispered, "let me do that."

       Pippin shook his head, then gasped as a strap pulled on his tender hands.  But he did not stop working.  "I can do it, Merry.  My fingers are just sore, that's all."  

       Merry nodded doubtfully.  "All right.  But I don't want you hurting yourself."  

       "Yes, Merry."  The tweenager finished his task and shook his hands, wincing.  Then, "Merry?"

       "Yes, Pippin?"

       "Why didn't you want to bring the map Lord Elrond and Bilbo gave you with us?"

       Merry leaned against the pony's warm legs and idly stroked Bill's neck.  "Something might happen to it, Pip.  It might get lost, or soiled."  Merry smiled faintly.  "There isn't another like it in the Shire."  He sighed and reached up to run  his fingers through the rough hair of Bill's mane.  "I've memorized it as best I can.  Bilbo will keep it safe for me."

        "With Frodo's book?  And my picture?" asked Pippin.  

        "Waiting for us to get back," Merry whispered, and gave his little cousin a hug.  "Pippin?"

        "Yes, Merry?"

       "Everything's going to be fine."

       "Yes, Merry."  Pippin exhaled softly, relaxing.  Now that the time had come to depart, he felt young and frightened and nervous, and not at all eager to leave. _I'm glad we came here,_ he thought, his gaze taking in the leaves falling from the winter-touched trees and the elegant, time-honored architecture.  _I will remember our time here as long as I live.  And I have Cousin Bilbo's drawing to remind me, tucked safely in the pages of Frodo's book.  Waiting for us to get back._

       The members of the Company that had volunteered to go with the Ring-bearer waited, their faces solemn and their thoughts turned inward, for this day had been both long dreaded and long anticipated.  Frodo stood quietly at the base of the stairs, eyes downcast, silent and withdrawn.  Aragorn sat on the courtyard steps, his head bowed to his knees, for his destiny had come upon him at last.  Gimli stood with his hands resting on the handle of his great battle axe, silent and still, unmindful of the cold wind.  Next to the Dwarf, Boromir shifted from foot to foot, checking and re-checking his sword and other weapons.  Legolas arrived a few moments late, joining the others on silent feet with bow in hand and his quiver on his back.   

       At last Gandalf and Elrond came from the House, and the wizard took his place at the Ring-bearer's side.  The Company drew closer together and stood in the courtyard before the Master of Rivendell.  With others of his household gathered there, Elrond gave them his final words of wisdom and hope.  "This is my last word," he said in a low voice.  "The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom.  On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, nor to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need…"*  Frodo listened with bowed head, his face set and pale, and Gandalf placed a hand upon his shoulder.

When all had been said, Elrond blessed them and the Company bowed to him.

       Aragorn straightened and his eyes sought those of Arwen Evenstar, but no gentle words of parting were exchanged between them.  All that they had to say to each other had been said.  Arwen stood among her kin in the courtyard, silent, knowing that like herself, each was thinking of the perils that lay ahead for this small company.  So much depended on the outcome of this Quest.  All of her hopes, and the hopes of every Elf, Human, Dwarf or Hobbit, indeed, all living things that breathed the free air of Middle-earth.  "Fare well, Frodo," she whispered.

       With Gandalf's hand resting gently on his shoulder, Frodo allowed himself one last look at the Last Homely House.  Then he led the way as the Fellowship of the Ring turned from Imladris, from that place of recovery and renewal, and following the Ring-bearer, walked forward into the gathering dark. 

THE END

* Elrond's speech is taken from _The Fellowship of the Ring_, by J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Ring Goes South."

For those of you wishing to continue the tale, "The Ruin of Men and Elves" takes up the story as the Fellowship leaves Rivendell.


End file.
